UnderWoods 


Robert  Loui$  ^teven^oi] 


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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


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UNDERWOODS 


[Author's  Edition. 


BY   THE   SAME   AUTHOR 


AN  INLAND  VOYAGE. 

EDINBURGH :   PICTURESQUE  NOTES. 

TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY. 

VIRGINIBUS  PUERISQUE. 

FAMILIAR  STUDIES  OF  MEN  AND  BOOKS. 

NEW  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

TREASURE  ISLAND. 

THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS. 

A  CHILD'S  GARDEN  OF  VERSES. 

STRANGE  CASE  OF  DR.  JEKYLL  AND  MR.  HYDE. 

PRINCE  OTTO. 

KIDNAPPED. 

THE  MERRY  MEN. 

(With  Mrs.  Stevenson) 
MORE  NEW  ARABIAN  NIGHTS:    THE  DYNAMITER. 


UNDERWOODS 


BY 


ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1887 


Of  all  my  verse,  like  not  a  single  line; 

But  like  my  title,  for  it  is  not  mine. 

That  title  from  a  better  man  I  stole  : 

Ah,  how  much  better,  had  I  stol'n  the  whole  I 


V& 


tit** 


•  •  ••  • 

•  •«.  •  • 

•  •    •    « 


DEDICATION 

There  are  men  and  classes  of  men  that  stand  above 
the  common  herd :  the  soldier,  the  sailor,  and  the  shep- 
herd not  unfrequently ;  the  artist  rarely;  rarelier  still, 
the  clergyman ;  the  physician  almost  as  a  rule.  He  is 
the  flower  (such  as  it  is)  of  our  civilisation;  and  when 
that  stage  of  man  is  done  with,  and  only  remembered 
to  be  marvelled  at  in  history,  he  will  be  thought  to 
have  shared  as  little  as  any  in  the  defects  of  the  period, 
and  most  notably  exhibited  the  virtues  of  the  race. 
Generosity  he  has,  such  as  is  possible  to  those  who 
practise  an  art,  never  to  those  who  drive  a  trade ;  dis- 
cretion, tested  by  a  hundred  secrets;  tact,  tried  in  a 
thousand  embarrassments ;  and  what  are  more  impor- 
tant, Heraclean  cheerfulness  and  courage.    So  it  is  that 


292021 


vi  DEDICATION 

he  brings  air  and  cheer  into  the  sick-room,  and  often 
enough,  though  not  so  often  as  he  wishes,  brings  healing. 

Gratitude  is  but  a  lame  sentiment;  thanks,  when 
they  are  expressed,  are  often  more  embarrassing  than 
welcome ;  and  yet  I  must  set  forth  mine  to  a  few  out  of 
many  doctors  who  have  brought  me  comfort  and  help : 
to  Dr.  Willey  of  San  Francisco,  whose  kindness  to  a 
stranger  it  must  be  as  grateful  to  him,  as  it  is  touching 
to  me,  to  remember;  to  Dr.  Karl  Ruedi  of  Davos,  the 
good  genius  of  the  English  in  his  frosty  mountains;  to 
Dr.  Herbert  of  Paris,  whom  I  knew  only  for  a  week, 
and  to  Dr.  Caissot  of  Montpellier,  whom  I  knew  only 
for  ten  days,  and  who  have  yet  written  their  names 
deeply  in  my  memory;  to  Dr.  Brandt  of  Royat;  to 
Dr.  Wakefield  of  Nice ;  to  Dr.  Chepmell,  whose  visits 
make  it  a  pleasure  to  be  ill ;  to  Dr.  Horace  Dobell,  so 
wise  in  counsel ;  to  Sir  Andrew  Clark,  so  unwearied  in 
kindness;  and  to  that  wise  youth,  my  uncle,  Dr.  Balfour. 

I  forget  as  many  as  I  remember;  and  I  ask  both 
to  pardon  me,  these  for  silence,  those  for  inadequate 
speech.     But  one  name  I  have  kept  on  purpose  to  the 


DEDICATION  vii 

last,  because  it  is   a  household   word   with  me,  and 

because  if  I  had  not  received  favours  from  so  many 

hands  and  in  so  many  quarters  of  the  world,  it  should 

have  stood  upon  this  page  alone:  that  of  my  friend 

Thomas  Bodley  Scott  of  Bournemouth.  Will  he  accept 

this,  although  shared  among  so  many,  for  a  dedication 

to  himself?  and  when  next  my  ill-fortune  (which  has 

thus  its  pleasant  side)  brings  him  hurrying  to  me  when 

he  would  fain  sit  down  to  meat  or  lie  down  to  rest,  will 

he  care  to  remember  that  he  takes  this  trouble  for  one 

who  is  not  fool  enough  to  be  ungrateful  ? 

R.  L.  S. 
Skerryvore, 

Bournemouth. 


NOTE 

The  human  conscience  has  fled  of  late  the  troublesome 
domain  of  conduct  for  what  I  should  have  supposed  to 
be  the  less  congenial  field  of  art :  there  she  may  now  be 
said  to  rage,  and  with  special  severity  in  all  that  touches 
dialect ;  so  that  in  every  novel  the  letters  of  the  alpha- 
bet are  tortured,  and  the  reader  wearied,  to  commemo- 
rate shades  of  mispronunciation.  Now  spelling  is  an  art 
of  great  difficulty  in  my  eyes,  and  I  am  inclined  to  lean 
upon  the  printer,  even  in  common  practice,  rather  than 
to  venture  abroad  upon  new  quests.  And  the  Scots 
tongue  has  an  orthography  of  its  own,  lacking  neither 
"  authority  nor  author."  Yet  the  temptation  is  great  to 
lend  a  little  guidance  to.  the  bewildered  Englishman. 
Some  simple  phonetic  artifice  might  defend  your  verses 
from  barbarous  mishandling,  and  yet  not  injure  any 


x  NOTE 

vested  interest.  So  it  seems  at  first;  but  there  are 
rocks  ahead.  Thus,  if  I  wish  the  diphthong  ou  to  have 
its  proper  value,  I  may  write  oor  instead  of  our  /  many- 
have  done  so  and  lived,  and  the  pillars  of  the  universe 
remained  unshaken.  But  if  I  did  so,  and  came  presently 
to  doun,  which  is  the  classical  Scots  spelling  of  the  Eng- 
lish down,  I  should  begin  to  feel  uneasy ;  and  if  I  went 
on  a  little  farther,  and  came  to  a  classical  Scots  word, 
like  stour  or  dour  or  clour,  I  should  know  precisely  where 
I  was  —  that  is  to  say,  that  I  was  out  of  sight  of  land  on 
those  high  seas  of  spelling  reform  in  which  so  many 
strong  swimmers  have  toiled  vainly.  To  some  the  situ- 
ation is  exhilarating;  as  for  me,  I  give  one  bubbling 
cry  and  sink.  The  compromise  at  which  I  have  ar- 
rived is  indefensible,  and  I  have  no  thought  of  trying 
to  defend  it.  As  I  have  stuck  for  the  most  part  to  the 
proper  spelling,  I  append  a  table  of  some  common 
vowel  sounds  which  no  one  need  consult ;  and  just  to 
prove  that  I  belong  to  my  age  and  have  in  me  the  stuff 
of  a  reformer,  I  have  used  modification  marks  through- 
out.    Thus  I  can  tell  myself,  not  without  pride,  that  I 


NOTE  xi 

have  added  a  fresh  stumbling-block  for  English  readers, 
and  to  a  page  of  print  in  my  native  tongue,  have  lent  a 
new  uncouthness.     Sed  non  nobis. 

I  note  again,  that  among  our  new  dialecticians,  the 
local  habitat  of  every  dialect  is  given  to  the  square 
mile.  I  could  not  emulate  this  nicety  if  I  desired ;  for 
I  simply  wrote  my  Scots  as  well  as  I  was  able,  not  car- 
ing if  it  hailed  from  Lauderdale  or  Angus,  from  the 
Mearns  or  Galloway ;  if  I  had  ever  heard  a  good  word, 
I  used  it  without  shame ;  and  when  Scots  was  lacking, 
or  the  rhyme  jibbed,  I  was  glad  (like  my  betters)  to  fall 
back  on  English.  For  all  that,  I  own  to  a  friendly  feel- 
ing for  the  tongue  of  Fergusson  and  of  Sir  Walter,  both 
Edinburgh  men ;  and  I  confess  that  Burns  has  always 
sounded  in  my  ear  like  something  partly  foreign.  And 
indeed  I  am  from  the  Lothians  myself;  it  is  there  I 
heard  the  language  spoken  about  my  childhood ;  and  it 
is  in  the  drawling  Lothian  voice  that  I  repeat  it  to  my- 
self. Let  the  precisians  call  my  speech  that  of  the 
Lothians.  And  if  it  be  not  pure,  alas !  what  matters 
it  ?     The   day  draws   near  when   this  illustrious   and 


xii  NOTE 

malleable  tongue  shall  be  quite  forgotten ;  and  Burns's 
Ayrshire,  and  Dr.  Macdonald's  Aberdeen-awa',  and 
Scott's  brave,  metropolitan  utterance  will  be  all  equally 
the  ghosts  of  speech.  Till  then  I  would  love  to  have 
my  hour  as  a  native  Maker,  and  be  read  by  my  own 
countryfolk  in  our  own  dying  language:  an  ambition 
surely  rather  of  the  heart  than  of  the  head,  so  restricted 
as  it  is  in  prospect  of  endurance,  so  parochial  in  bounds 
of  space. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I.— In  English 

PAGE 

I.  Envoy — Go,  little  book i 

II.  A  Song  of  the  Road  —  The  gauger  walked      .        .  2 

ill.  The  Canoe  Speaks  —  On  the  great  streams        .        .  4 

IV.  It  is  the  season 7 

v.  The  House  Beautiful  —  A  naked  house,  a  naked  moor  9 
vi.  A    Visit  from    the   Sea  —  Far  from   the  loud  sea 

beaches 12 

vii.  To  A  Gardener  —  Friend,  in  my  mountain-side  demesne  14 

viii.  To  Minnie  —  A  picture  frame  for  you  to  fill        .  16 

ix.  To  K.  de  M.— A  lover  of  the  moorland  bare       .         .17 

x.  To  N.  V.  de  G.  S.— The  unfathomable  sea          .         .  19 

xi.  To  Will.  H.  Low — Youth  now  flees 

xii.  To  Mrs.  Will.  H.  Low  —  Even  in  the  bluest  noon 

day  of  July 24 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

xiii.  To  H.  F.  Brown  —  I  sit  and  wait        .        .        .        .26 

xiv.  To  Andrew  Lang  —  Dear  Andrew    .        .        .        .29 

xv.  Et  tu  in  Arcadia  vixisti  —  In  ancient  tales,  O  friend   31 

xvi.  To  W.  E.  Henley  —  The  year  runs  through  her  phases  36 

xvii.  Henry  James  —  Who  comes  to-night .        .         .        -38 

xviii.  The  Mirror  Speaks  —  Where  the  bells      .        .        -39 

xix.  Katharine  —  We  see  you  as  we  see  a  face  .        .        .     41 

xx.  To  F.  J.  S.—  I  read,  dear  friend 42 

xxi.  Requiem  —  Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky  .         .        -43 

xxii.  The  Celestial  Surgeon  —  If  I  have  faltered    .        .    44 

xxiii.  Our  Lady  of  the  Snows  —  Out  of  the  sun       .        .    45 

xxiv.  Not  yet,  my  soul 50 

XXV.  It  is  not  yours,  O  mother,  to  complain  .         .         .         .     53 
xxvi.  The  Sick  Child  —  O  mother,  lay  your  hand  on  my  brow  56 


xxvii.  In  Memoriam  F.  A.  S. — Yet,  O  stricken  heart  . 
xxviii.  To  my  Father —  Peace  and  her  huge  invasion    . 
xxix.  In  the  States  —  With  half  a  heart     . 
xxx.  A  Portrait  —  I  am  a  kind  of  farthing  dip  . 

XXXI.  Sing  clearlier,  Muse 

xxxii.  A  Camp  —  The  bed  was  made       .... 
xxxiii.  The  Country  of  the  Camisards  —  We  travelled  in 

the  print  of  olden  wars  ..... 
xxxiv.  Skerryvore  —  For  love  of  lovely  words 
xxxv.  Skerryvore  :    The  Parallel  —  Here  all  is  sunny 

xxxvi.  My  house,  I  say 

xxxvii.  My  body  which  my  dungeon  is      ...         . 
xxxviii.  Say  not  of  me  that  weakly  I  declined     . 


58 
60 
62 

63 
65 
66 

67 
68 
69 
70 
7i 
73 


CONTENTS 


BOOK   II.—  In  Scots 

PAGE 

I.  The  Maker  to  Posterity  —  Far  'yont  amang  the 

years  to  be 77 

II.  Ille  Terrarum — Frae  nirly,  nippin',  Eas'lan  breeze    80 
HI.  When  aince  Aprile  has  fairly  come       .         .         .         -85 

iv.  A  Mile  an'  a  Bittock 87 

v.  A  Lowden  Sabbath  Morn  — The  clinkum-clank  o' 

Sabbath  bells 89 

vi.  The  Spaewife  —  O,  I  wad  like  to  ken      #  .        .        .98 
vii.  The  Blast — 1875— It's  rainin'.  Weet's  the  gairden  sod  100 
viii.   The  Counterblast — 1886 — My    bonny   man,  the 

warld,  it's  true        .  103 

ix.   The  Counterblast  Ironical  —  It's  strange  that  God 

should  fash  to  frame 108 

x.  Their  Laureate  to  an  Academy  Class  Dinner 

Club — Dear  Thamson  class,  whaure'er  I  gang      .   no 
xi.  Embro  Hie  Kirk  — The  Lord  Himsel' in  former  days  114 
xii.  The  Scotsman's  Return  from  Abroad  —  In  mony 

a  foreign  pairt  I've  been 118 

xiii.  Late  in  the  nicht 125 

xiv.  My  Conscience!  —  Of  a'  the  ills  that  flesh  can  fear     .  130 
xv.  To  Doctor  John  Brown  —  By  Lyne  and  Tyne,  by 

Thames  and  Tees 133 

xvi.  It's  an  owercome  sooth  for  age  an'  youth      .         .         .138 


BOOK  I.— In  English 


I 

ENVOY 

Go,  little  book,  and  wish  to  all 

Flowers  in  the  garden,  meat  in  the  hall, 

A  bin  of  wine,  a  spice  of  wit, 

A  house  with  lawns  enclosing  it, 

A  living  river  by  the  door, 

A  nightingale  in  the  sycamore ! 


II 

A  SONG   OF   THE   ROAD 

The  gauger  walked  with  willing  foot, 
And  aye  the  gauger  played  the  flute ; 
And  what  should  Master  Gauger  play 
But  Over  the  hills  and  far  away  ? 

Whene'er  I  buckle  on  my  pack 
And  foot  it  gaily  in  the  track, 

0  pleasant  gauger,  long  since  dead, 

1  hear  you  fluting  on  ahead. 

You  go  with  me  the  self-same  way  — 
The  self-same  air  for  me  you  play ; 
For  I  do  think  and  so  do  you 
It  is  the  tune  to  travel  to. 


A  SONG  OF  THE   ROAD 

For  who  would  gravely  set  his  face 
To  go  to  this  or  t'other  place  ? 
There's  nothing  under  Heav'n  so  blue 
That's  fairly  worth  the  travelling  to. 

On  every  hand  the  roads  begin, 
And  people  walk  with  zeal  therein  ; 
But  wheresoe'er  the  highways  tend, 
Be  sure  there's  nothing  at  the  end. 

Then  follow  you,  wherever  hie 
The  travelling  mountains  of  the  sky. 
Or  let  the  streams  in  civil  mode 
Direct  your  choice  upon  a  road ; 

For  one  and  all,  or  high  or  low, 
Will  lead  you  where  you  wish  to  go ; 
And  one  and  all  go  night  and  day 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away  / 


Forest  of  Montargis,  iJ 


Ill 

THE    CANOE   SPEAKS 

On  the  great  streams  the  ships  may  go 

About  men's  business  too  and  fro. 

But  I,  the  egg-shell  pinnace,  sleep 

On  crystal  waters  ankle-deep : 

I,  whose  diminutive  design, 

Of  sweeter  cedar,  pithier  pine, 

Is  fashioned  on  so  frail  a  mould, 

A  hand  may  launch,  a  hand  withhold : 

I,  rather,  with  the  leaping  trout 

Wind,  among  lilies,  in  and  out ; 

I,  the  unnamed,  inviolate, 

Green,  rustic  rivers,  navigate ; 

My  dipping  paddle  scarcely  shakes 


THE  CANOE   SPEAKS 

The  berry  in  the  bramble-brakes ; 
Still  forth  on  my  green  way  I  wend 
Beside  the  cottage  garden-end ; 
And  by  the  nested  angler  fare, 
And  take  the  lovers  unaware. 
By  willow  wood  and  water-wheel 
Speedily  fleets  my  touching  keel ; 
By  all  retired  and  shady  spots 
Where  prosper  dim  forget-me-nots; 
By  meadows  where  at  afternoon 
The  growing  maidens  troop  in  June 
To  loose  their  girdles  on  the  grass. 
Ah !  speedier  than  before  the  glass 
The  backward  toilet  goes ;  and  swift 
As  swallows  quiver,  robe  and  shift 
And  the  rough  country  stockings  lie 
Around  each  young  divinity. 
When,  following  the  recondite  brook, 
Sudden  upon  this  scene  I  look, 


UNDERWOODS 

And  light  with  unfamiliar  face 
On  chaste  Diana's  bathing-place, 
Loud  ring  the  hills  about  and  all 
The  shallows  are  abandoned.    .    . 


IV 

It  is  the  season  now  to  go 
About  the  country  high  and  low, 
Among  the  lilacs  hand  in  hand, 
And  two  by  two  in  fairy  land. 

The  brooding  boy,  the  sighing  maid, 
Wholly  fain  and  half  afraid, 
Now  meet  along  the  hazel'd  brook 
To  pass  and  linger,  pause  and  look. 

A  year  ago,  and  blithely  paired, 
Their  rough-and-tumble  play  they  shared ; 
They  kissed  and  quarrelled,  laughed  and  cried, 
A  year  ago  at  Eastertide. 


UNDERWOODS 

With  bursting  heart,  with  fiery  face, 

She  strove  against  him  in  the  race ; 

He  unabashed  her  garter  saw, 

That  now  would  touch  her  skirts  with  awe. 

Now  by  the  stile  ablaze  she  stops, 
And  his  demurer  eyes  he  drops ; 
Now  they  exchange  averted  sighs 
Or  stand  and  marry  silent  eyes. 

And  he  to  her  a  hero  is 
And  sweeter  she  than  primroses ; 
Their  common  silence  dearer  far 
Than  nightingale  and  mavis  are. 

Now  when  they  sever  wedded  hands, 
Joy  trembles  in  their  bosom-strands, 
And  lovely  laughter  leaps  and  falls 
Upon  their  lips  in  madrigals. 


V 
THE    HOUSE   BEAUTIFUL 

A  naked  house,  a  naked  moor, 
A  shivering  pool  before  the  door, 
A  garden  bare  of  flowers  and  fruit 
And  poplars  at  the  garden  foot : 
Such  is  the  place  that  I  live  in, 
Bleak  without  and  bare  within. 

Yet  shall  your  ragged  moor  receive 
The  incomparable  pomp  of  eve, 
And  the  cold  glories  of  the  dawn 
Behind  your  shivering  trees  be  drawn ; 
And  when  the  wind  from  place  to  place 


io  UNDERWOODS 

Doth  the  unmoored  cloud-galleons  chase, 
Your  garden  gloom  and  gleam  again, 
With  leaping  sun,  with  glancing  rain. 
Here  shall  the  wizard  moon  ascend 
The  heavens,  in  the  crimson  end 
Of  day's  declining  splendour ;  here 
The  army  of  the  stars  appear. 
The  neighbour  hollows  dry  or  wet, 
Spring  shall  with  tender  flowers  beset ; 
And  oft  the  morning  muser  see 
Larks  rising  from  the  broomy  lea, 
And  every  fairy  wheel  and  thread 
Of  cobweb  dew-bediamonded. 
When  daisies  go,  shall  winter  time 
Silver  the  simple  grass  with  rime  j 
Autumnal  frosts  enchant  the  pool 
And  make  the  cart -ruts  beautiful ; 
And  when  snow-bright  the  moor  expands, 
How  shall  your  children  clap  their  hands ! 


THE   HOUSE   BEAUTIFUL  u 

To  make  this  earth,  our  hermitage, 
A  cheerful  and  a  changeful  page, 
God's  bright  and  intricate  device 
Of  days  and  seasons  doth  suffice. 


VI 
A  VISIT   FROM   THE   SEA 

Far  from  the  loud  sea  beaches 
Where  he  goes  fishing  and  crying, 

Here  in  the  inland  garden 
Why  is  the  sea-gull  flying  ? 

Here  are  no  fish  to  dive  for; 

Here  is  the  corn  and  lea; 
Here  are  the  green  trees  rustling. 

Hie  away  home  to  sea! 

Fresh  is  the  river  water 

And  quiet  among  the  rushes; 


A  VISIT  FROM  THE   SEA 

This  is  no  home  for  the  sea-gull 
But  for  the  rooks  and  thrushes. 

Pity  the  bird  that  has  wandered ! 

Pity  the  sailor  ashore  ! 
Hurry  him  home  to  the  ocean, 

Let  him  come  here  no  more ! 

High  on  the  sea-cliff  ledges 

The  white  gulls  are  trooping  and  crying, 
Here  among  rooks  and  roses, 

Why  is  the  sea-gull  flying  ? . 


VII 
TO   A   GARDENER 

Friend,  in  my  mountain- side  demesne, 
My  plain-beholding,  rosy,  green 
And  linnet-haunted  garden-ground, 
Let  still  the  esculents  abound. 
Let  first  the  onion  flourish  there, 
Rose  among  roots,  the  maiden-fair, 
Wine-scented  and  poetic  soul 
Of  the  capacious  salad  bowl. 
Let  thyme  the  mountaineer  (to  dress 
The  tinier  birds)  and  wading  cress, 
The  lover  of  the  shallow  brook, 
From  all  my  plots  and  borders  look. 


TO  A  GARDENER 

Nor  crisp  and  ruddy  radish,  nor 
Pease-cods  for  the  child's  pinafore 
Be  lacking ;  nor  of  salad  clan 
The  last  and  least  that  ever  ran 
About  great  nature's  garden-beds. 
Nor  thence  be  missed  the  speary  heads 
Of  artichoke ;  nor  thence  the  bean 
That  gathered  innocent  and  green 
Outsavours  the  belauded  pea. 

These  tend,  I  prithee ;  and  for  me, 
Thy  most  long-surTering  master,  bring 
In  April,  when  the  linnets  sing 
And  the  days  lengthen  more  and  more, 
At  sundown  to  the  garden  door. 
And  I,  being  provided  thus, 
Shall,  with  superb  asparagus, 
A  book,  a  taper,  and  a  cup 
Of  country  wine,  divinely  sup. 
La  Solitude,  Hyeres. 


VIII 

TO  MINNIE 

(With  a  hand-glass) 
A  PICTURE-FRAME  for  yOU  tO  fill, 

A  paltry  setting  for  your  face, 
A  thing  that  has  no  worth  until 

You  lend  it  something  of  your  grace, 

I  send  (unhappy  I  that  sing 

Laid  by  awhile  upon  the  shelf) 

Because  I  would  not  send  a  thing 

Less  charming  than  you  are  yourself. 

And  happier  than  I,  alas ! 

(Dumb  thing,  I  envy  its  delight) 
'Twill  wish  you  well,  the  looking-glass, 

And  look  you  in  the  face  to-night. 


1869. 


IX 

TO    K.  de  M. 

A  lover  of  the  moorland  bare 

And  honest  country  winds,  you  were ; 

The  silver-skimming  rain  you  took ; 

And  loved  the  floodings  of  the  brook, 

Dew,  frost  and  mountains,  fire  and  seas, 

Tumultuary  silences, 

Winds  that  in  darkness  fifed  a  tune, 

And  the  high-riding,  virgin  moon. 

And  as  the  berry,  pale  and  sharp, 
Springs  on  some  ditch's  counterscarp 
In  our  ungenial,  native  north  — 
You  put  your  frosted  wildings  forth, 


i8  UNDERWOODS 

And  on  the  heath,  afar  from  man, 
A  strong  and  bitter  virgin  ran. 

The  berry  ripened  keeps  the  rude 
And  racy  flavour  of  the  wood. 
And  you  that  loved  the  empty  plain 
All  redolent  of  wind  and  rain, 
Around  you  still  the  curlew  sings  — 
The  freshness  of  the  weather  clings  - 
The  maiden  jewels  of  the  rain 
Sit  in  your  dabbled  locks  again. 


X 

TO    N.  V.  de  G.  S. 

The  unfathomable  sea,  and  time,  and  tears, 
The  deeds  of  heroes  and  the  crimes  of  kings 
Dispart  us ;  and  the  river  of  events 
Has,  for  an  age  of  years,  to  east  and  west 
More  widely  borne  our  cradles.     Thou  to  me 
Art  foreign,  as  when  seamen  at  the  dawn 
Descry  a  land  far  off  and  know  not  which. 
So  I  approach  uncertain ;  so  I  cruise 
Round  thy  mysterious  islet,  and  behold 
Surf  and  great  mountains  and  loud  river-bars, 
And  from  the  shore  hear  inland  voices  call. 


20  UNDERWOODS 

Strange  is  the  seaman's  heart ;  he  hopes,  he  fears ; 
Draws  closer  and  sweeps  wider  from  that  coast; 
Last,  his  rent  sail  refits,  and  to  the  deep 
His  shattered  prow  uncomforted  puts  back. 
Yet  as  he  goes  he  ponders  at  the  helm 
Of  that  bright  island ;  where  he  feared  to  touch, 
His  spirit  readventures ;  and  for  years, 
Where  by  his  wife  he  slumbers  safe  at  home, 
Thoughts  of  that  land  revisit  him ;  he  sees 
The  eternal  mountains  beckon,  and  awakes 
Yearning  for  that  far  home  that  might  have  been. 


XI 
TO   WILL.    H.    LOW 

Youth  now  flees  on  feathered  foot, 
Faint  and  fainter  sounds  the  flute, 
Rarer  songs  of  gods ;   and  still 
Somewhere  on  the  sunny  hill, 
Or  along  the  winding  stream, 
Through  the  willows,  flits  a  dream ; 
Flits  but  shows  a  smiling  face, 
Flees  but  with  so  quaint  a  grace, 
None  can  choose  to  stay  at  home, 
All  must  follow,  all  must  roam. 


22  UNDERWOODS 


This  is  unborn  beauty :   she 
Now  in  air  floats  high  and  free, 
Takes  the  sun  and  breaks  the  blue ;  - 
Late  with  stooping  pinion  flew 
Raking  hedgerow  trees,  and  wet 
Her  wing  in  silver  streams,  and  set 
Shining  foot  on  temple  roof: 
Now  again  she  flies  aloof, 
Coasting  mountain  clouds  and  kiss't 
By  the  evening's  amethyst. 


In  wet  wood  and  miry  lane, 
Still  we  pant  and  pound  in  vain ; 
Still  with  leaden  foot  we  chase 
Waning  pinion,  fainting  face ; 
Still  with  gray  hair  we  stumble  on, 
Till,  behold,  the  vision  gone ! 


TO  WILL.  H.  LOW  23 

Where  hath  fleeting  beauty  led  ? 
To  the  doorway  of  the  dead. 
Life  is  over,  life  was  gay  : 
We  have  come  the  primrose  way. 


XII 
TO  MRS.  WILL.  H.  LOW 

Even  in  the  bluest  noonday  of  July, 

There  could  not  run  the  smallest  breath  of  wind 

But  all  the  quarter  sounded  like  a  wood ; 

And  in  the  chequered  silence  and  above 

The  hum  of  city  cabs  that  sought  the  Bois, 

Suburban  ashes  shivered  into  song. 

A  patter  and  a  chatter  and  a  chirp 

And  a  long  dying  hiss  —  it  was  as  though 

Starched  old  brocaded  dames  through  all  the  house 

Had  trailed  a  strident  skirt,  or  the  whole  sky 

Even  in  a  wink  had  over-brimmed  in  rain. 


TO   MRS.  WILL.  H.   LOW  25 

Hark,  in  these  shady  parlours,  how  it  talks 

Of  the  near  Autumn,  how  the  smitten  ash 

Trembles  and  augurs  floods  !    O  not  too  long 

In  these  inconstant  latitudes  delay, 

O  not  too  late  from  the  unbeloved  north 

Trim  your  escape !    For  soon  shall  this  low  roof 

Resound  indeed  with  rain,  soon  shall  your  eyes 

Search  the  foul  garden,  search  the  darkened  rooms, 

Nor  find  one  jewel  but  the  blazing  log. 

12  Rue  Vernier,  Paris. 


XIII 
TO    H.    F.    BROWN 

(Written  during  a  dangerous  sickness. ) 

I  sit  and  wait  a  pair  of  oars 
On  cis-Elysian  river-shores. 
Where  the  immortal  dead  have  sate, 
'Tis  mine  to  sit  and  meditate ; 
To  re-ascend  life's  rivulet, 
Without  remorse,  without  regret ; 
And  sing  my  Alma  Genetrix 
Among  the  willows  of  the  Styx. 

And  lo,  as  my  serener  soul 

Did  these  unhappy  shores  patrol, 


TO   H.    F.  BROWN  27 

And  wait  with  an  attentive  ear 
The  coming  of  the  gondolier, 
Your  fire-surviving  roll  I  took, 
Your  spirited  and  happy  book ; x 
Whereon,  despite  my  frowning  fate, 
It  did  my  soul  so  recreate 
That  all  my  fancies  fled  away 
On  a  Venetian  holiday. 

Now,  thanks  to  your  triumphant  care, 

Your  pages  clear  as  April  air, 

The  sails,  the  bells,  the  birds,  I  know, 

And  the  far-off  Friulan  snow ; 

The  land  and  sea,  the  sun  and  shade, 

And  the  blue  even  lamp-inlaid. 

For  this,  for  these,  for  all,  O  friend, 

For  your  whole  book  from  end  to  end  — 

1  Life  on  the  Lagoons,  by  H.  F.  Brown,  originally  burned  in  the  fire 
at  Messrs.  Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  and  Co.'s. 


28  UNDERWOODS 

For  Paron  Piero's  muttonham  — 
I  your  defaulting  debtor  am. 

Perchance,  reviving,  yet  may  I 
To  your  sea-paven  city  hie, 
And  in  &felze,  some  day  yet 
Light  at  your  pipe  my  cigarette. 


XIV 
TO   ANDREW   LANG 

Dear  Andrew,  with  the  brindled  hair, 
Who  glory  to  have  thrown  in  air, 
High  over  arm,  the  trembling  reed, 
By  Ale  and  Kail,  by  Till  and  Tweed : 
An  equal  craft  of  hand  you  show 
The  pen  to  guide,  the  fly  to  throw : 
I  count  you  happy  starred ;  for  God, 
When  He  with  inkpot  and  with  rod 
Endowed  you,  bade  your  fortune  lead 
Forever  by  the  crooks  of  Tweed, 
Forever  by  the  woods  of  song 
And  lands  that  to  the  Muse  belong ; 
Or  if  in  peopled  streets,  or  in 
The  abhorred  pedantic  sanhedrim, 


30  UNDERWOODS 

It  should  be  yours  to  wander,  still 
Airs  of  the  morn,  airs  of  the  hill, 
The  plovery  Forest  and  the  seas 
That  break  about  the  Hebrides, 
Should  follow  over  field  and  plain 
And  find  you  at  the  window  pane ; 
And  you  again  see  hill  and  peel, 
And  the  bright  springs  gush  at  your  heel. 
So  went  the  fiat  forth,  and  so 
Garrulous  like  a  brook  you  go, 
With  sound  of  happy  mirth  and  sheen 
Of  daylight  —  whether  by  the  green 
You  fare  that  moment,  or  the  gray ; 
Whether  you  dwell  in  March  or  May ; 
Or  whether  treat  of  reels  and  rods 
Or  of  the  old  unhappy  gods : 
Still  like  a  brook  your  page  has  shone, 
And  your  ink  sings  of  Helicon. 


XV 

ET  TU    IN    ARCADIA   VIXISTI 

(TO   R.    A.    M.    S.) 

In  ancient  tales,  O  friend,  thy  spirit  dwelt ; 

There,  from  of  old,  thy  childhood  passed ;  and  there 

High  expectation,  high  delights  and  deeds, 

Thy  fluttering  heart  with  hope  and  terror  moved. 

And  thou  hast  heard  of  yore  the  Blatant  Beast, 

And  Roland's  horn,  and  that  war-scattering  shout 

Of  all-unarmed  Achilles,  aegis-crowned. 

And  perilous  lands  thou  sawest,  sounding  shores 

And  seas  and  forests  drear,  island  and  dale 

And  mountain  dark.     For  thou  with  Tristram  rod'st 

Or  Bedevere,  in  farthest  Lyonesse. 


32  UNDERWOODS 

Thou  hadst  a  booth  in  Samarcand,  whereat 

Side-looking  Magians  trafficked ;  thence,  by  night, 

An  Afreet  snatched  thee,  and  with  wings  upbore 

Beyond  the  Aral  mount ;  or,  hoping  gain, 

Thou,  with  a  jar  of  money,  didst  embark, 

For  Balsorah,  by  sea.     But  chiefly  thou 

In  that  clear  air  took'st  life ;  in  Arcady 

The  haunted,  land  of  song ;  and  by  the  wells 

Where  most  the  gods  frequent.     There  Chiron  old, 

In  the  Pelethronian  antre,  taught  thee  lore 

The  plants,  he  taught,  and  by  the  shining  stars 

In  forests  dim  to  steer.     There  hast  thou  seen 

Immortal  Pan  dance  secret  in  a  glade, 

And,  dancing,  roll  his  eyes ;  these,  where  they  fell, 

Shed  glee,  and  through  the  congregated  oaks 

A  flying  horror  winged ;  while  all  the  earth 

To  the  god's  pregnant  footing  thrilled  within. 

Or  whiles,  beside  the  sobbing  stream,  he  breathed, 

In  his  clutched  pipe,  unformed  and  wizard  strains, 


ET  TU    IN   ARCADIA   VIXISTI  33 

Divine  yet  brutal :  which  the  forest  heard, 
And  thou,  with  awe ;  and  far  upon  the  plain 
The  unthinking  ploughman  started  and  gave  ear. 

Now  things  there  are  that,  upon  him  who  sees, 
A  strong  vocation  lay ;  and  strains  there  are 
That  whoso  hears  shall  hear  for  evermore. 
For  evermore  thou  hear'st  immortal  Pan 
And  those  melodious  godheads,  ever  young 
And  ever  quiring,  on  the  mountains  old. 

What  was  this  earth,  child  of  the  gods,  to  thee  ? 

Forth  from  thy  dreamland  thou,  a  dreamer,  cam'st, 

And  in  thine  ears  the  olden  music  rang, 

And  in  thy  mind  the  doings  of  the  dead, 

And  those  heroic  ages  long  forgot. 

To  a  so  fallen  earth,  alas !  too  late, 

Alas !  in  evil  days,  thy  steps  return, 

To  list  at  noon  for  nightingales,  to  grow 


34  UNDERWOODS 

A  dweller  on  the  beach  till  Argo  come 
That  came  long  since,  a  lingerer  by  the  pool 
Where  that  desired  angel  bathes  no  more. 

As  when  the  Indian  to  Dakota  comes, 
Or  farthest  Idaho,  and  where  he  dwelt, 
He  with  his  clan,  a  humming  city  finds ; 
Thereon  awhile,  amazed,  he  stares,  and  then 
To  right  and  leftward,  like  a  questing  dog, 
Seeks  first  the  ancestral  altars,  then  the  hearth 
Long  cold  with  rains,  and  where  old  terror  lodged, 
And  where  the  dead.     So  thee  undying  Hope, 
With  all  her  pack,  hunts  screaming  through  the  years 
Here,  there,  thou  fleeest ;  but  nor  here  nor  there 
The  pleasant  gods  abide,  the  glory  dwells. 

That,  that  was  not  Apollo,  not  the  god. 

This  was  not  Venus,  though  she  Venus  seemed 

A  moment.     And  though  fair  yon  river  move, 


ET   TU    IN   ARCADIA   VIXISTI  35 

She,  all  the  way,  from  disenchanted  fount 

To  seas  unhallowed  runs;   the  gods  forsook 

Long  since  her  trembling  rushes ;  from  her  plains 

Disconsolate,  long  since  adventure  fled; 

And  now  although  the  inviting  river  flows, 

And  every  poplared  cape,  and  every  bend 

Or  willowy  islet,  win  upon  thy  soul 

And  to  thy  hopeful  shallop  whisper  speed ; 

Yet  hope  not  thou  at  all;  hope  is  no  more; 

And  O,  long  since  the  golden  groves  are  dead, 

The  faery  cities  vanished  from  the  land ! 


XVI 
TO   W.    E.    HENLEY 

The  year  runs  through  her  phases ;  rain  and  sun, 
Springtime  and  summer  pass  ;  winter  succeeds ; 
But  one  pale  season  rules  the  house  of  death. 
Cold  falls  the  imprisoned  daylight ;  fell  disease 
By  each  lean  pallet  squats,  and  pain  and  sleep 
Toss  gaping  on  the  pillows. 

But  O  thou ! 
Uprise  and  take  thy  pipe.     Bid  music  flow, 
Strains  by  good  thoughts  attended,  like  the  spring 
The  swallows  follow  over  land  and  sea. 
Pain  sleeps  at  once ;  at  once,  with  open  eyes, 
Dozing  despair  awakes.     The  shepherd  sees 


TO  W.  E.  HENLEY  37 

His  flock  come  bleating  home ;  the  seaman  hears 
Once  more  the  cordage  rattle.     Airs  of  home ! 
Youth,  love  and  roses  blossom  j  the  gaunt  ward 
Dislimns  and  disappears,  and,  opening  out, 
Shows  brooks  and  forests,  and  the  blue  beyond 
Of  mountains. 

Small  the  pipe ;  but  O  !  do  thou, 
Peak-faced  and  suffering  piper,  blow  therein 
The  dirge  of  heroes  dead ;  and  to  these  sick, 
These  dying,  sound  the  triumph  over  death. 
Behold  !  each  greatly  breathes ;  each  tastes  a  joy 
Unknown  before,  in  dying ;  for  each  knows 
A  hero  dies  with  him  —  though  unfulfilled, 
Yet  conquering  truly  —  and  not  dies  in  vain. 

So  is  pain  cheered,  death  comforted ;  the  house 
Of  sorrow  smiles  to  listen.     Once  again  — 
O  thou,  Orpheus  and  Heracles,  the  bard 
And  the  deliverer,  touch  the  stops  again ! 


XVII 

» 

HENRY  JAMES 

Who  comes  to-night  ?     We  ope  the  doors  in  vain. 

Who  comes  ?     My  bursting  walls,  can  you  contain 

The  presences  that  now  together  throng 

Your  narrow  entry,  as  with  flowers  and  song, 

As  with  the  air  of  life,  the  breath  of  talk  ? 

Lo,  how  these  fair  immaculate  women  walk 

Behind  their  jocund  maker;  and  we  see 

Slighted  De  Mauves,  and  that  far  different  she, 

Gressie,  the  trivial  sphynx  j  and  to  our  feast 

Daisy  and  Barb  and  Chancellor  (she  not  least ! ) 

With  all  their  silken,  all  their  airy  kin, 

Do  like  unbidden  angels  enter  in. 

But  he,  attended  by  these  shining  names, 

Comes  (best  of  all)  himself —  our  welcome  James. 


XVIII 
THE    MIRROR   SPEAKS 

Where  the  bells  peal  far  at  sea 

Cunning  fingers  fashioned  me. 

There  on  palace  walls  I  hung 

While  that  Consuelo  sung ; 

But  I  heard,  though  I  listened  well, 

Never  a  note,  never  a  trill, 

Never  a  beat  of  the  chiming  bell. 

There  I  hung  and  looked,  and  there 

In  my  gray  face,  faces  fair 

Shone  from  under  shining  hair. 

Well  I  saw  the  poising  head, 

But  the  lips  moved  and  nothing  said ; 


UNDERWOODS 

And  when  lights  were  in  the  hall, 
Silent  moved  the  dancers  all. 

So  awhile  I  glowed,  and  then 
Fell  on  dusty  days  and  men ; 
Long  I  slumbered  packed  in  straw, 
Long  I  none  but  dealers  saw ; 
Till  before  my  silent  eye 
One  that  sees  came  passing  by. 

Now  with  an  outlandish  grace, 
To  the  sparkling  fire  I  face 
In  the  blue  room  at  Skerry vore ; 
Where  I  wait  until  the  door 
Open,  and  the  Prince  of  Men, 
Henry  James,  shall  come  again. 


XIX 
KATHARINE 

We  see  you  as  we  see  a  face 
That  trembles  in  a  forest  place 
Upon  the  mirrror  of  a  pool 
Forever  quiet,  clear  and  cool ; 
And  in  the  wayward  glass,  appears 
To  hover  between  smiles  and  tears, 
Elfin  and  human,  airy  and  true, 
And  backed  by  the  reflected  blue. 


XX 

TO  F.  J.  S. 

I  read,  dear  friend,  in  your  dear  face 
Your  life's  tale  told  with  perfect  grace ; 
The  river  of  your  life,  I  trace 
Up  the  sun-chequered,  devious  bed 
To  the  far-distant  fountain-head. 

Not  one  quick  beat  of  your  warm  heart, 
Nor  thought  that  came  to  you  apart, 
Pleasure  nor  pity,  love  nor  pain 
Nor  sorrow,  has  gone  by  in  vain ; 

But  as  some  lone,  wood-wandering  child 
Brings  home  with  him  at  evening  mild 
The  thorns  and  flowers  of  all  the  wild, 
From  your  whole  life,  O  fair  and  true 
Your  flowers  and  thorns  you  bring  with  you ! 


XXI 
REQUIEM 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  lo7iged  to  be  ; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


XXII 
THE   CELESTIAL   SURGEON 

If  I  have  faltered  more  or  less 
In  my  great  task  of  happiness ; 
If  I  have  moved  among  my  race 
And  shown  no  glorious  morning  face; 
If  beams  from  happy  human  eyes 
Have  moved  me  not ;  if  morning  skies, 
Books,  and  my  food,  and  summer  rain 
Knocked  on  my  sullen  heart  in  vain :  — 
Lord,  thy  most  pointed  pleasure  take 
And  stab  my  spirit  broad  awake; 
Or,  Lord,  if  too  obdurate  I, 
Choose  thou,  before  that  spirit  die, 
A  piercing  pain,  a  killing  sin, 
And  to  my  dead  heart  run  them  in ! 


XXIII 
OUR   LADY   OF   THE   SNOWS 

Out  of  the  sun,  out  of  the  blast, 
Out  of  the  world,  alone  I  passed 
Across  the  moor  and  through  the  wood 
To  where  the  monastery  stood. 
There  neither  lute  nor  breathing  fife, 
Nor  rumour  of  the  world  of  life, 
Nor  confidences  low  and  dear, 
Shall  strike  the  meditative  ear. 
Aloof,  unhelpful,  and  unkind, 
The  prisoners  of  the  iron  mind, 
Where  nothing  speaks  except  the  hell 
The  unfraternal  brothers  dwell. 


46  UNDERWOODS 

Poor  passionate  men,  still  clothed  afresh 

With  agonising  folds  of  flesh ; 

Whom  the  clear  eyes  solicit  still 

To  some  bold  output  of  the  will, 

While  fairy  Fancy  far  before 

And  musing  Memory-Hold-the-door 

Now  to  heroic  death  invite 

And  now  uncurtain  fresh  delight : 

O,  little  boots  it  thus  to  dwell 

On  the  remote  unneighboured  hill ! 

O  to  be  up  and  doing,  O 
Unfearing  and  unshamed  to  go 
In  all  the  uproar  and  the  press 
About  my  human  business ! 
My  un dissuaded  heart  I  hear 
Whisper  courage  in  my  ear. 
With  voiceless  calls,  the  ancient  earth 
Summons  me  to  a  daily  birth. 


OUR   LADY  OF  THE   SNOWS  47 

Thou,  O  my  love,  ye,  O  my  friends — 
The  gist  of  life,  the  end  of  ends — 
To  laugh,  to  love,  to  live,  to  die, 
Ye  call  me  by  the  ear  and  eye ! 

Forth  from  the  casemate,  on  the  plain 
Where  honour  has  the  world  to  gain, 
Pour  forth  and  bravely  do  your  part, 
O  knights  of  the  unshielded  heart ! 
Forth  and  forever  forward !  —  out 
From  prudent  turret  and  redoubt, 
And  in  the  mellay  charge  amain, 
To  fall  but  yet  to  rise  again  ! 
Captive  ?  ah,  still,  to  honour  bright, 
A  captive  soldier  of  the  right ! 
Or  free  and  fighting,  good  with  ill  ? 
Unconquering  but  unconquered  still ! 

And  ye,  O  brethren,  what  if  God, 
When  from  Heav'n's  top  he  spies  abroad, 


48  UNDERWOODS 

And  sees  on  this  tormented  stage 
The  noble  war  of  mankind  rage : 
What  if  his  vivifying  eye, 
O  monks,  should  pass  your  corner  by  ? 
For  still  the  Lord  is  Lord  of  might; 
In  deeds,  in  deeds,  he  takes  delight; 
The  plough,  the  spear,  the  laden  barks, 
The  field,  the  founded  city,  marks ; 
He  marks  the  smiler  of  the  streets, 
The  singer  upon  garden  seats ; 
He  sees  the  climber  in  the  rocks ; 
To  him,  the  shepherd  folds  his  flocks. 
For  those  he  loves  that  underprop 
With  daily  virtues  Heaven's  top, 
And  bear  the  falling  sky  with  ease, 
Unfrowning  caryatides. 
Those  he  approves  that  ply  the  trade, 
That  rock  the  child,  that  wed  the  maid, 
That  with  weak  virtues,  weaker  hands, 


OUR   LADY  OF  THE   SNOWS  49 

Sow  gladness  on  the  peopled  lands, 
And  still  with  laughter,  song  and  shout, 
Spin  the  great  wheel  of  earth  about. 

But  ye  ?  —  O  ye  who  linger  still 
Here  in  your  fortress  on  the  hill, 
With  placid  face,  with  tranquil  breath, 
The  unsought  volunteers  of  death, 
Our  cheerful  General  on  high 
With  careless  looks  may  pass  you  by. 


XXIV 

Not  yet,  my  soul,  these  friendly  fields  desert, 
Where  thou  with  grass,  and  rivers,  and  the  breeze, 
And  the  bright  face  of  day,  thy  dalliance  hadst ; 
Where  to  thine  ear  first  sang  the  enraptured  birds; 
Where  love  and  thou  that  lasting  bargain  made. 
The  ship  rides  trimmed,  and  from  the  eternal  shore 
Thou  hearest  airy  voices ;  but  not  yet 
Depart,  my  soul,  not  yet  awhile  depart. 

Freedom  is  far,  rest  far.     Thou  art  with  life 
Too  closely  woven,  nerve  with  nerve  intwined ; 
Service  still  craving  service,  love  for  love, 
Love  for  dear  love,  still  suppliant  with  tears. 


NOT  YET,  MY   SOUL  51 

Alas,  not  yet  thy  human  task  is  done ! 

A  bond  at  birth  is  forged ;  a  debt  doth  lie 

Immortal  on  mortality.    It  grows  — 

By  vast  rebound  it  grows,  unceasing  growth ; 

Gift  upon  gift,  alms  upon  alms,  upreared, 

From  man,  from  God,  from  nature,  till  the  soul 

At  that  so  huge  indulgence  stands  amazed. 

Leave  not,  my  soul,  the  unfoughten  field,  nor  leave 
Thy  debts  dishonoured,  nor  thy  place  desert 
Without  due  service  rendered.    For  thy  life, 
Up,  spirit,  and  defend  that  fort  of  clay, 
Thy  body,  now  beleaguered;  whether  soon 
Or  late  she  fall;  whether  to-day  thy  friends 
Bewail  thee  dead,  or,  after  years,  a  man 
Grown  old  in  honour  and  the  friend  of  peace. 
Contend,  my  soul,  for  moments  and  for  hours; 
Each  is  with  service  pregnant ;  each  reclaimed 
Is  as  a  kingdom  conquered,  where  to  reign. 


52  UNDERWOODS 

As  when  a  captain  rallies  to  the  fight 

His  scattered  legions,  and  beats  ruin  back, 

He,  on  the  field,  encamps,  well  pleased  in  mind. 

Yet  surely  him  shall  fortune  overtake, 

Him  smite  in  turn,  headlong  his  ensigns  drive ; 

And"  that  dear  land,  now  safe,  to-morrow  fall. 

But  he,  unthinking,  in  the  present  good 

Solely  delights,  and  all  the  camps  rejoice. 


XXV 

• 

It  is  not  yours,  O  mother,  to  complain, 

Not,  mother,  yours  to  weep, 

Though  nevermore  your  son  again 

Shall  to  your  bosom  creep, 

Though  nevermore  again  you  watch  your  baby  sleep. 

Though  in  the  greener  paths  of  earth, 

Mother  and  child,  no  more 

We  wander ;  and  no  more  the  birth 

Of  me  whom  once  you  bore, 

Seems  still  the  brave  reward  that  once  it  seemed  of  yore ; 

Though  as  all  passes,  day  and  night, 
The  seasons  and  the  years, 
From  you,  O  mother,  this  delight, 


54  UNDERWOODS 

This  also  disappears  — 

Some  profit  yet  survives  of  all  your  pangs  and  tears. 

The  child,  the  seed,  the  grain  of  corn, 

The  acorn  on  the  hill, 

Each  for  some  separate  end  is  born 

In  season  fit,  and  still 

Each  must  in  strength  arise  to  work  the  almighty  will. 

So  from  the  hearth  the  children  flee, 

By  that  almighty  hand 

Austerely  led ;  so  one  by  sea 

Goes  forth,  and  one  by  land ; 

Nor  aught  of  all  man's  sons  escapes  from  that  command. 

So  from  the  sally  each  obeys 

The  unseen  almighty  nod ; 

So  till  the  ending  all  their  ways 

Blindfolded  loth  have  trod : 

Nor  knew  their  task  at  all,  but  were  the  tools  of  God. 


IT  IS  NOT  YOURS  55 

And  as  the  fervent  smith  of  yore 

Beat  out  the  glowing  blade, 

Nor  wielded  in  the  front  of  war 

The  weapons  that  he  made, 

But  in  the  tower  at  home  still  plied  his  ringing  trade ; 

So  like  a  sword  the  son  shall  roam 

On  nobler  missions  sent ; 

And  as  the  smith  remained  at  home 

In  peaceful  turret  pent, 

So  sits  the  while  at  home  the  mother  well  content. 


XXVI 
THE    SICK  CHILD 

Child.     O  mother,  lay  your  hand  on  my  brow ! 
O  mother,  mother,  where  am  I  now  ? 
Why  is  the  room  so  gaunt  and  great  ? 
Why  am  I  lying  awake  so  late  ? 

Mother.     Fear  not  at  all :  the  night  is  still. 

Nothing  is  here  that  means  you  ill  — 
Nothing  but  lamps  the  whole  town  through, 
And  never  a  child  awake  but  you. 

Child.       Mother,  mother,  speak  low  in  my  ear, 

Some  of  the  things  are  so  great  and  near, 


THE   SICK   CHILD  57 

Some  are  so  small  and  far  away, 
I  have  a  fear  that  I  cannot  say. 
What  have  I  done,  and  what  do  I  fear, 
And  why  are  you  crying,  mother  dear  ? 

Mother.     Out  in  the  city,  sounds  begin 

Thank  the  kind  God,  the  carts  come  in  ! 
An  hour  or  two  more  and  God  is  so  kind, 
The  day  shall  be  blue  in  the  window-blind, 
Then  shall  my  child  go  sweetly  asleep, 
And  dream  of  the  birds  and  the  hills  of  sheep. 


XXVII 
IN   MEMORIAM    F.  A.  S. 

Yet,  O  stricken  heart,  remember,  O  remember 
How  of  human  days  he  lived  the  better  part. 

April  came  to  bloom  and  never  dim  December 
Breathed  its  killing  chills  upon  the  head  or  heart. 

Doomed  to  know  not  Winter,  only  Spring,  a  being 
Trod  the  flowery  April  blithely  for  a  while, 

Took  his  fill  of  music,  joy  of  thought  and  seeing, 
Came  and  stayed  and  went,  nor  ever  ceased  to  smile. 

Came  and  stayed  and  went,  and  now  when  all  is  finished, 
You  alone  have  crossed  the  melancholy  stream, 

Yours  the  pang,  but  his,  O  his,  the  undiminished 
Undecaying  gladness,  undeparted  dream. 


IN   MEMORIAM   F.  A.  S.  59 

All  that  life  contains  of  torture,  toil,  and  treason, 
Shame,  dishonour,  death,  to  him  were  but  a  name. 

Here,  a  boy,  he  dwelt  through  all  the  singing  season 
And  ere  the  day  of  sorrow  departed  as  he  came. 


Davos.  1 88  1. 


XXVIII 
TO    MY   FATHER 

Peace  and  her  huge  invasion  to  these  shores 
Puts  daily  home ;   innumerable  sails 
Dawn  on  the  far  horizon  and  draw  near ; 
Innumerable  loves,  uncounted  hopes 
To  our  wild  coasts,  not  darkling  now,  approach : 
Not  now  obscure,  since  thou  and  thine  are  there, 
And  bright  on  the  lone  isle,  the  foundered  reef, 
The  long,  resounding  foreland,  Pharos  stands. 

These  are  thy  works,  O  father,  these  thy  crown  j 
Whether  on  high  the  air  be  pure,  they  shine 
Along  the  yellowing  sunset,  and  all  night 
Among  the  unnumbered  stars  of  God  they  shine ; 


TO  MY  FATHER  61 

Or  whether  fogs  arise  and  far  and  wide 
The  low  sea-level  drown  —  each  finds  a  tongue 
And  all  night  long  the  tolling  bell  resounds : 
So  shine,  so  toll,  till  night  be  overpast, 
Till  the  stars  vanish,  till  the  sun  return, 
And  in  the  haven  rides  the  fleet  secure. 

In  the  first  hour,  the  seaman  in  his  skiff 

Moves  through  the  unmoving  bay,  to  where  the  town 

Its  earliest  smoke  into  the  air  upbreathes 

And  the  rough  hazels  climb  along  the  beach. 

To  the  tugg'd  oar  the  distant  echo  speaks. 

The  ship  lies  resting,  where  by  reef  and  roost 

Thou  and  thy  lights  have  led  her  like  a  child. 

This  hast  thou  done,  and  I  —  can  I  be  base  ? 

I  must  arise,  O  father,  and  to  port 

Some  lost,  complaining  seaman  pilot  home. 


XXIX 
IN   THE   STATES 

With  half  a  heart  I  wander  here 

As  from  an  age  gone  by 
A  brother  —  yet  though  young  in  years, 

An  elder  brother,  I. 

You  speak  another  tongue  than  mine, 
Though  both  were  English  born. 

I  towards  the  night  of  time  decline, 
You  mount  into  the  morn. 

Youth  shall  grow  great  and  strong  and  free, 

But  age  must  still  decay  : 
To-morrow  for  the  States  — for  me, 

England  and  Yesterday. 


San  Francisco. 


XXX 

A  PORTRAIT 

I  am  a  kind  of  farthing  dip, 

Unfriendly  to  the  nose  and  eyes ; 

A  blue-behinded  ape,  I  skip 
Upon  the  trees  of  Paradise. 

At  mankind's  feast,  I  take  my  place 
In  solemn,  sanctimonious  state, 

And  have  the  air  of  saying  grace 
While  I  defile  the  dinner  plate. 

I  am  "  the  smiler  with  the  knife," 
The  battener  upon  garbage,  I  — 


64  UNDERWOODS 

Dear  Heaven,  with  such  a  rancid  life, 
Were  it  not  better  far  to  die  ? 

Yet  still,  about  the  human  pale, 
I  love  to  scamper,  love  to  race, 

To  swing  by  my  irreverent  tail 
All  over  the  most  holy  place ; 

And  when  at  length,  some  golden  day, 
The  unfailing  sportsman,  aiming  at, 

Shall  bag,  me  —  all  the  world  shall  say: 
Thank  God,  a?id  there's  an  end  of  that  I 


XXXI 

Sing  clearlier,  Muse,  or  evermore  be  still, 
Sing  truer  or  no  longer  sing  ! 
No  more  the  voice  of  melancholy  Jacques 
To  wake  a  weeping  echo  in  the  hill ; 
But  as  the  boy,  the  pirate  of  the  spring, 
From  the  green  elm  a  living  linnet  takes, 
One  natural  verse  recapture — then  be  still. 


XXXII 
A   CAMP1 

The  bed  was  made,  the  room  was  fit, 
By  punctual  eve  the  stars  were  lit ; 
The  air  was  still,  the  water  ran, 
No  need  was  there  for  maid  or  man, 
When  we  put  up,  my  ass  and  I, 
At  God's  green  caravanserai. 

1  From  Travels  with  a  Donkey. 


XXXIII 
THE   COUNTRY   OF   THE   CAMISARDS1 

We  travelled  in  the  print  of  olden  wars, 
Yet  all  the  land  was  green, 
And  love  we  found,  and  peace, 
Where  fire  and  war  had  been. 

They  pass  and  smile,  the  children  of  the  sword 
No  more  the  sword  they  wield ; 
And  O,  how  deep  the  corn 
Along  the  battlefield ! 

1  From  Travels  with  a  Donkey. 


XXXIV 
SKERRYVORE 

For  love  of  lovely  words,  and  for  the  sake 
Of  those,  my  kinsmen  and  my  countrymen, 
Who  early  and  late  in  the  windy  ocean  toiled 
To  plant  a  star  for  seamen,  where  was  then 
The  surfy  haunt  of  seals  and  cormorants : 
I,  on  the  lintel  of  this  cot,  inscribe 
The  name  of  a  strong  tower. 


XXXV 
SKERRYVORE:  The  Parallel 

Here  all  is  sunny,  and  when  the  truant  gull 

Skims  the  green  level  of  the  lawn,  his  wing 

Dispetals  roses ;  here  the  house  is  framed 

Of  kneaded  brick  and  the  plumed  mountain  pine, 

Such  clay  as  artists  fashion  and  such  wood 

As  the  tree-climbing  urchin  breaks.     But  there 

Eternal  granite  hewn  from  the  living  isle 

And  dowelled  with  brute  iron,  rears  a  tower 

That  from  its  wet  foundation  to  its  crown 

Of  glittering  glass,  stands,  in  the  sweep  of  winds, 

Immovable,  immortal,  eminent. 


XXXVI 

My  house,  I  say.     But  hark  to  the  sunny  doves 
That  make  my  roof  the  arena  of  their  loves, 
That  gyre  about  the  gable  all  day  long 
And  fill  the  chimneys  with  their  murmurous  song 
Our  house,  they  say;  and  mine,  the  cat  declares 
And  spreads  his  golden  fleece  upon  the  chairs ; 
And  mine  the  dog,  and  rises  stiff  with  wrath 
If  any  alien  foot  profane  the  path. 
So,  too,  the  buck  that  trimmed  my  terraces, 
Our  whilome  gardener,  called  the  garden  his ; 
Who  now,  deposed,  surveys  my  plain  abode 
And  his  late  kingdom,  only  from  the  road. 


XXXVII 

My  body  which  my  dungeon  is, 
And  yet  my  parks  and  palaces :  — 

Which  is  so  great  that  there  I  go 
All  the  day  long  to  and  fro, 
And  when  the  night  begins  to  fall 
Throw  down  my  bed  and  sleep,  while  all 
The  building  hums  with  wakefulness  — 
Even  as  a  child  of  savages 
When  evening  takes  her  on  her  way, 
(She  having  roamed  a  summer's  day 
Along  the  mountain-sides  and  scalp) 
Sleeps  in  an  antre  of  that  alp  :  — 

Which  is  so  broad  and  high  that  there, 
As  in  the  topless  fields  of  air, 
My  fancy  soars  like  to  a  kite 


72  UNDERWOODS 

And  faints  in  the  blue  infinite  :  — 

Which  is  so  strong,  my  strongest  throes 
And  the  rough  world's  besieging  blows 
Not  break  it,  and  so  weak  withal, 
Death  ebbs  and  flows  in  its  loose  wall 
As  the  green  sea  in  fishers'  nets, 
And  tops  its  topmost  parapets :  — 
Which  is  so  wholly  mine  that  I 
Can  wield  its  whole  artillery, 
And  mine  so  little,  that  my  soul 
Dwells  in  perpetual  control, 
And  I  but  think  and  speak  and  do 
As  my  dead  fathers  move  me  to :  — 

If  this  born  body  of  my  bones 
The  beggared  soul  so  barely  owns, 
What  money  passed  from  hand  to  hand, 
What  creeping  custom  of  the  land, 
What  deed  of  author  or  assign, 
Can  make  a  house  a  thing  of  mine  ? 


XXXVIII 

Say  not  of  me  that  weakly  I  declined 
The  labours  of  my  sires,  and  fled  the  sea, 
The  towers  we  founded  and  the  lamps  we  lit, 
To  play  at  home  with  paper  like  a  child. 
But  rather  say:    In  the  afternoon  of  time 
A  strenuous  family  dusted  from  its  hands 
The  sand  of  granite,  and  beholding  far 
Along  the  sounding  coast  its  pyramids 
And  tall  memorials  catch  the  dying  sun, 
Smiled  well  content,  and  to  this  childish  task 
Around  the  fire  addressed  its  evening  hours. 


BOOK   11.—/^  Scots 


TABLE    OF   COMMON    SCOTTISH   VOWEL 
SOUNDS 


.     >  =  open  A  as  in  rare. 


ae 
ai 

"a'    ^ 

au  >  =  AW  as  in  law. 
aw  ) 

ea  =  open  E  as  in  mere,  but  this  with  exceptions,  as 
heather  =  heather,  wean  =  wain,  lear  =lair. 

ee  } 

ei    >  =  open  E  as  in  mere. 

ie   ) 

oa  =  open  O  as  in  more. 

ou  =  doubled  O  as  in  poor. 

ow  =  O W  as  in  bower. 

u  =  doubled  O  as  in  poor. 

ui  or  ii  before  R  =  (say  roughly)  open  A  as  in  rare. 

ui  or  ii  before  any  other  consonant  =  (say  roughly)  close  I 
as  in  grin. 

y  =  open  I  as  in  kite. 

i  =  pretty  nearly  what  you  please,  much  as  in  English. 
Heaven  guide  the  reader  through  that  labyrinth  !  But 
in  Scots  it  dodges  usually  from  the  short  I,  as  in  grin, 
to  the  open  E,  as  in  mere.  Find  and  blind,  I  may 
remark,  are  pronounced  to  rhyme  with  the  preterite 
of  grin. 


THE  MAKER  TO  POSTERITY 

Far  'yont  amang  the  years  to  be 
When  a'  we  think,  an'  a'  we  see, 
An'  a'  we  luve,  's  been  dung  ajee 

By  time's  rouch  shouther, 
An'  what  was  richt  and  wrang  for  me 

Lies  mangled  throu'ther, 

It's  possible  —  it's  hardly  mair  — 
That  some  ane,  ripin'  after  lear  — 
Some  auld  professor  or  young  heir, 

If  still  there's  either  — 
May  find  an'  read  me,  an'  be  sair 
Perplexed,  puir  brither ! 


78  UNDERWOODS 

"  What  tongue  does  your  auld  bookie  speak  ?  " 

He'll  spier;  an'  I,  his  mou  to  steik : 
"  No  bein'  fit  to  write  in  Greeks 
I  wrote  in  Lalla?i, 
Dear  to  my  heart  as  the  peat  reek, 
Auld  as  Tantallon. 

"  Few  spak  it  than,  an'  noo  there's  nane. 
My  puir  auld  sangs  lie  a'  their  lane, 
Their  sense,  that  aince  was  braw  an'  plain, 

Tint  a'thegether, 
Like  runes  upon  a  stand  in'  stane 

Amang  the  heather. 

"  But  think  not  you  the  brae  to  speel; 
You,  tae,  maun  chow  the  bitter  peel; 
For    a'  your  tear,  for  a'  your  skeel, 

Ye' re  na7ie  sae  lucky  ; 
An'  things  are  mebbe  waur  than  weel 
For  you,  my  buckie. 


THE   MAKER  TO   POSTERITY  79 

"  The  hale  concern  ( baith  hens  an1  eggs, 
Baith  books  an'  writers,  stars  an'  clegs) 
Noo  stackers  upon  lowsent  legs 

An'  wears  awa'y 
The  tack  o'  mankind,  near  the  dregs, 

Rins  unco  law. 

"  Your  book,  that  in  some  braw  new  tongue, 
Ye  wrote  or  prentit,  preached  or  sung, 
Will  still  be  just  a  bairn,  an'  you?ig 

In  fame  an'  years, 
Whan  the  hale  planet's  guts  are  dung 
About  your  ears; 

"  An'  you,  sair  gruppin'  to  a  spar 
Or  whammled  wP  some  bleezifi'  star, 
Cryin'  to  ken  whaur  deil ye  are, 

Hame,  France,  or  Flanders  — 
Whang  sindry  like  a  railway  car 

An' flie in  danders'' 


II 

ILLE   TERRARUM 

Frae  nirly,  nippin',  Eas'lan'  breeze, 
Frae  Norlan'  snaw,  an'  haar  o'  seas, 
Weel  happit  in  your  gairden  trees, 

A  bonny  bit, 
Atween  the  muckle  Pentland's  knees, 

Secure  ye  sit. 

Beeches  an'  aiks  entwine  their  theek, 
An'  firs,  a  stench,  auld-farrant  clique. 
A'  simmer  day,  your  chimleys  reek, 

Couthy  and  bien; 
An'  here  an'  there  your  windies  keek 

Amang  the  green. 


ILLE  TERRARUM  81 

A  pickle  plats  an*  paths  an'  posies, 
A  wheen  auld  gillyflowers  an'  roses : 
A  ring  o'  wa's  the  hale  encloses 

Frae  sheep  or  men  ; 
An'  there  the  auld  housie  beeks  an'  doses, 

A'  by  her  lane. 

The  gairdner  crooks  his  weary  back 

A'  day  in  the  pitaty-track, 

Or  mebbe  stops  awhile  to  crack 

Wi'  Jane  the  cook, 
Or  at  some  buss,  worm-eaten-black, 

To  gie  a  look. 

Frae  the  high  hills  the  curlew  ca's ; 
The  sheep  gang  baaing  by  the  wa's ; 
Or  whiles  a  clan  o'  roosty  craws 

Cangle  thegether; 
The  wild  bees  seek  the  gairden  raws, 

Weariet  wi'  heather. 


82  UNDERWOODS 

Or  in  the  gloamin'  douce  an'  gray 
The  sweet-throat  mavis  tunes  her  lay ; 
The  herd  comes  linkin'  doun  the  brae ; 

An'  by  degrees 
The  muckle  siller  miine  maks  way 

Amang  the  trees. 

Here  aft  hae  I,  wi'  sober  heart, 
For  meditation  sat  apairt, 
When  orra  loves  or  kittle  art 

Perplexed  my  mind; 
Here  socht  a  balm  for  ilka  smart 

O'  humankind. 

Here  aft,  weel  neukit  by  my  lane, 
Wi'  Horace,  or  perhaps  Montaigne, 
The  mornin'  hours  hae  come  an'  gane 

Abiine  my  heid — 
I  wadnae  gi'en  a  chucky-stane 

For  a'  I'd  read. 


ILLE  TERRARUM  83 

But  noo  the  auld  city,  street  by  street, 
An'  winter  fu'  o'  snaw  an'  sleet, 
Awhile  shut  in  my  gangrel  feet 

An'  goavin'  mettle; 
Noo  is  the  soopit  ingle  sweet, 

An'  liltin'  kettle. 

An'  noo  the  winter  winds  complain ; 
Cauld  lies  the  glaur  in  ilka  lane ; 
On  draigled  hizzie,  tautit  wean 

An'  drucken  lads, 
In  the  mirk  nicht,  the  winter  rain 

Dribbles  an'  blads. 

Whan  bugles  frae  the  Castle  rock, 
An'  beaten  drums  wi'  dowie  shock, 
Wauken,  at  cauld-rife  sax  o'clock, 

My  chitterin'  frame, 
I  mind  me  on  the  kintry  cock, 

The  kintry  hame. 


84  UNDERWOODS 

I  mind  me  on  yon  bonny  bield ; 
An'  Fancy  traivels  far  afield 
To  gaither  a'  that  gairdens  yield 

O'  sun  an'  Simmer  : 
To  hearten  up  a  dowie  chield, 

Fancy's  the  limmer ! 


Ill 

When  aince  Aprile  has  fairly  come, 
An'  birds  may  bigg  in  winter's  lum, 
An'  pleisure's  spreid  for  a'  and  some 

O'  whatna  state, 
Love,  wi'  her  auld  recruitin'  drum, 

Than  taks  the  gate 

The  heart  plays  dunt  wi'  main  an'  micht ; 
The  lasses'  een  are  a'  sae  bricht, 
Their  dresses  are  sae  braw  an'  ticht, 

The  bonny  birdies !  — 
Puir  winter  virtue  at  the  sicht 

Gangs  heels  ower  hurdies. 


86  UNDERWOODS 

An'  aye  as  love  frae  land  to  land 
Tirls  the  drum  wi'  eident  hand, 
A'  men  collect  at  her  command, 

Toun-bred  or  land'art, 
An'  follow  in  a  denty  band 

Her  gaucy  standart. 

An'  I,  wha  sang  o'  rain  an'  snaw, 
An'  weary  winter  weel  awa', 
Noo  busk  me  in  a  jacket  braw, 

An'  tak  my  place 
I'  the  ram-stam,  harum-scarum  raw, 

Wi*  smilin'  face. 


IV 
A   MILE   AN'   A   BITTOCK 

A  mile   an'  a  bittock,  a  mile  or  twa, 
Abiine  the  burn,  ayont  the  law, 
Davie  an'  Donal'  an'  Cherlie  an'  a', 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly ! 

Ane  went  hame  wi'  the  ither,  an'  then 
The  ither  went  hame  wi'  the  ither  twa  men, 
An*  baith  wad  return  him  the  service  again. 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly ! 

The  clocks  were  chappin'  in  house  an'  ha', 
Eleeven,  twal  an'  ane  an'  twa; 


88  UNDERWOODS 

An'  the  guidman's  face  was  turnt  to  the  wa', 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly ! 

A  wind  got  up  frae  affa  the  sea, 
It  blew  the  stars  as  dear's  could  be, 
It  blew  in  the  een  of  a'  o'  the  three, 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly ! 

Noo,  Davie  was  first  to  get  sleep  in  his  head, 
"  The  best  o'  frien's  maun  twine,"  he  said ; 
"  I'm  weariet,  an'  here  I'm  awa'  to  my  bed." 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly ! 

Twa  o'  them  walkin'  an'  crackin'  their  lane, 
The  mornin'  licht  cam  gray  an'  plain, 
An'  the  birds  they  yammert  on  stick  an'  stane, 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly ! 

O  years  ayont,  O  years  awa', 
My  lads,  ye'll  mind  whate'er  befa' — 
My  lads,  ye'll  mind  on  the  bield  o'  the  law, 
When  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly. 


V 
A  LOWDEN  SABBATH  MORN 

The  clinkum-clank  o'  Sabbath  bells 
Noo  to  the  hoastin'  rookery  swells, 
Noo  faintin'  laigh  in  shady  dells, 

Sounds  far  an'  near, 
An'  through  the  simmer  kintry  tells 

Its  tale  o'  cheer. 

An'  noo,  to  that  melodious  play, 
A'  deidly  awn  the  quiet  sway  — 
A'  ken  their  solemn  holiday, 

Bestial  an'  human, 
The  singin'  Untie  on  the  brae, 

The  restin'  plou'man. 


90  UNDERWOODS 

He,  mair  than  a'  the  lave  o'  men, 
His  week  completit  joys  to  ken ; 
Half-dressed,  he  daunders  out  an'  in, 

Perplext  wi'  leisure ; 
An'  his  raxt  limbs  he'll  rax  again 

Wi'  painfti'  pleesure. 

The  steerin'  mither  Strang  ant 
Noo  shoos  the  bairnies  but  a  bit ; 
Noo  cries  them  ben,  their  Sinday  shiiit 

To  scart  upon  them, 
Or  sweeties  in  their  pouch  to  pit, 

Wi'  blessin's  on  them. 

The  lasses,  clean  frae  tap  to  taes, 
Are  busked  in  crunklin'  underclaes ; 
The  gartened  hose,  the  weel-filled  stays, 

The  nakit  shift, 
A'  bleached  on  bonny  greens  for  days, 

An'  white's  the  drift. 


A  LOWDEN   SABBATH    MORN  91 

An'  noo  to  face  the  kirkward  mile : 
The  guidman's  hat  o'  dacent  style, 
The  blackit  shoon,  we  noo  maun  fyle 

As  white's  the  miller : 
A  waefii'  peety  tae,  to  spile 

The  warth  o'  siller. 

Our  Marg'et,  aye  sae  keen  to  crack, 
Douce-stappin'  in  the  stoury  track, 
Her  emeralt  goun  a'  kiltit  back 

Frae  snawy  coats, 
White- ankled,  leads  the  kirkward  pack 

Wi'  Dauvit  Groats. 

A'  thocht  ahint,  in  runkled  breeks, 
A'  spiled  wi'  lyin'  by  for  weeks, 
The  guidman  follows  closs,  an'  cleiks 

The  sonsie  missis ; 
His  sarious  face  at  aince  bespeaks 

The  day  that  this  is. 


92  UNDERWOODS 

And  aye  an'  while  we  nearer  draw 
To  whaur  the  kirkton  lies  alaw, 
Mair  neebours,  comin'  saft  an'  slaw 

Frae  here  an'  there, 
The  thicker  thrang  the  gate  an'  caw 

The  stour  in  air. 

But  hark !  the  bells  frae  nearer  clang ; 
To  rowst  the  slaw,  their  sides  they  bang ; 
An'  see  !  black  coats  a'ready  thrang 

The  green  kirkyaird ; 
And  at  the  yett,  the  chestnuts  spang 

That  brocht  the  laird. 

The  solemn  elders  at  the  plate 

Stand  drinkin'  deep  the  pride  o'  state : 

The  practised  hands  as  gash  an'  great 

As  Lords  o'  Session ; 
The  later  named,  a  wee  thing  blate 

In  their  expression. 


A   LOWDEN   SABBATH   MORN  93 

The  prentit  stanes  that  mark  the  deid, 
Wi'  lengthened  lip,  the  sarious  read ; 
Syne  wag  a  moraleesin'  heid, 

An'  then  an'  there 
Their  hirplin'  practice  an'  their  creed 

Try  hard  to  square. 

It's  here  our  Merren  lang  has  lain, 

A  wee  bewast  the  table-stane ; 

An'  yon's  the  grave  o'  Sandy  Blane ; 

An'  further  ower, 
The  mither's  brithers,  dacent  men  ! 

Lie  a'  the  fower. 

Here  the  guidman  sail  bide  awee 
To  dwall  amang  the  deid ;  to  see 
Auld  faces  clear  in  fancy's  e'e ; 

Belike  to  hear 
Auld  voices  fa' in  saft  an'  slee 

On  fancy's  ear. 


94  UNDERWOODS 

Thus,  on  the  day  o'  solemn  things, 
The  bell  that  in  the  steeple  swings 
To  fauld  a  scaittered  faim'ly  rings 

Its  walcome  screed; 
An'  just  a  wee  thing  nearer  brings 

The  quick  an'  deid. 

But  noo  the  bell  is  ringin'  in ; 
To  tak  their  places,  folk  begin ; 
The  minister  himsel'  will  shiine 

Be  up  the  gate, 
Filled  fu'  wi'  clavers  about  sin 

An'  man's  estate. 

The  tunes  are  up  —  French,  to  be  shure, 
The  faithfu'  French,  an'  twa-three  mair ; 
The  auld  prezentor,  hoastin'  sair, 

Wales  out  the  portions, 
An'  yirks  the  tune  into  the  air 

Wi'  queer  contortions. 


A   LOWDEN   SABBATH    MORN  95 

Follows  the  prayer,  the  readin'  next, 
An'  than  the  fisslin'  for  the  text  — 
The  twa-three  last  to  find  it,  vext 

But  kind  o'  proud ; 
An'  than  the  peppermints  are  raxed, 

An'  southernwood. 

For  noo's  the  time  whan  pows  are  seen 
Nid-noddin'  like  a  mandareen; 
When  tenty  mithers  stap  a  preen 

In  sleepin'  weans; 
An'  nearly  half  the  parochine 

Forget  their  pains. 

There's  just  a  waukrif  twa  or  three: 
Thrawn  commentautors  sweer  to  'gree, 
Weans  glowrin'  at  the  bumlin'  bee 

On  win  die- glasses, 
Or  lads  that  tak  a  keek  a- glee 

At  sonsie  lasses. 


96  UNDERWOODS 

Himsel',  meanwhile,  frae  whaur  he  cocks 
An'  bobs  belaw  the  soundin'-box, 
The  treesures  of  his  words  unlocks 

Wi'  prodigality, 
An'  deals  some  unco  dingin'  knocks 

To  infidality. 

Wi'  sappy  unction,  hoo  he  burkes 
The  hopes  o'  men  that  trust  in  works, 
Expounds  the  fau'ts  o'  ither  kirks, 

An'  shaws  the  best  o'  them 
No  muckle  better  than  mere  Turks, 

When  a's  confessed  o'  them. 

Bethankit !  what  a  bonny  creed ! 

What  mair  would  ony  Christian  need  ? — 

The  braw  words  rumm'le  ower  his  heid, 

Nor  steer  the  sleeper; 
And  in  their  restin'  graves,  the  deid 

Sleep  aye  the  deeper. 


A   LOWDEN   SABBATH   MORN  97 

Note. — It  may  be  guessed  by  some  that  I  had  a  certain  parish  in  my 
eye,  and  this  makes  it  proper  I  should  add  a  word  of  disclamation.  In 
my  time  there  have  been  two  ministers  in  that  parish.  Of  the  first  I  have 
a  special  reason  to  speak  well,  even  had  there  been  any  to  think  ill.  The 
second  I  have  often  met  in  private  and  long  (in  the  due  phrase)  "sat 
under"  in  his  church,  and  neither  here  nor  there  have  I  heard  an 
unkind  or  ugly  word  upon  his  lips.  The  preacher  of  the  text  had  thus  no 
original  in  that  particular  parish ;  but  when  I  was  a  boy,  he  might  have 
been  observed  in  many  others ;  he  was  then  (like  the  schoolmaster) 
abroad;  and  by  recent  advices,  it  would  seem  he  has  not  yet  entirely 
disappeared. 


VI 
THE  SPAEWIFE 

O,  I  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar- wife  says  I  — 
Why  chops  are  guid  to  brander  and  nane  sae  guid  to  fry. 
An'  siller,  that's  sae  braw  to  keep,  is  brawer  still  to  gi'e. 

—  Its  gey  art  easy  spierirt,  says  the  beggar- wife  to  me. 

O,  I  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar- wife  says  I  — 

Hoo  a'  things  come  to  be  whaur  we  find  them  when  we  try, 

The  lasses  in  their  claes  an'  the  fishes  in  the  sea. 

—  Its  gey  art  easy  spierirt,  says  the  beggar- wife  to  me. 

O,  I  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar- wife  says  I  — 

Why  lads  are  a*  to  sell  an'  lasses  a'  to  buy ; 

An'  naebody  for  dacency  but  barely  twa  or  three. 

—  Its  gey  art  easy  spierirt,  says  the  beggar- wife  to  me. 


THE  SPAEWIFE  99 

O,  I  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar-wife  says  I  — 

Gin  death's  as  shiire  to  men  as  killin'  is  to  kye, 

Why  God  has  filled  the  yearth  sae  fu'  o'  tasty  things  to  pree. 

—  Its  gey  an'  easy  spieriti\  says  the  beggar- wife  to  me. 

O,  I  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar-wife  says  I  — 
The  reason  o'  the  cause  an'  the  wherefore  o'  the  why, 
Wi'  mony  anither  riddle  brings  the  tear  into  my  e'e. 

—  Its  gey  an'  easy  spierin\  says  the  beggar- wife  to  me. 


VII 
THE   BLAST— 1875 

It's  rainin\     Weet's  the  gairden  sod, 
Weet  the  lang  roads  whaur  gangrels  plod 
A  maist  unceevil  thing  o'  God 

In  mid  July  — 
If  ye'll  just  curse  the  sneckdraw,  dod  ! 

An'  sae  wull  I ! 

He's  a  braw  place  in  Heev'n,  ye  ken, 
An'  lea's  us  puir,  forjaskit  men 
Clamjamfried  in  the  but  and  ben 

He  ca's  the  earth  — 
A  wee  bit  inconvenient  den 

No  muckle  worth; 


THE   BLAST— >i-3'/5     j  j  •   ■,  _ ;  \  .• 

An'  whiles,  at  orra  times,  keeks  out, 
Sees  what  puir  mankind  are  about ; 
An'  if  He  can,  I've  little  doubt, 

Upsets  their  plans ; 
He  hates  a'  mankind,  brainch  and  root, 

An  a'  that's  man's. 

An'  whiles,  whan  they  tak  heart  again, 
An'  life  i'  the  sun  looks  braw  an'  plain, 
Doun  comes  a  jaw  o'  droukin'  rain 

Upon  their  honours  — 
God  sends  a  spate  outower  the  plain, 

Or  mebbe  thun'ers. 

Lord  safe  us,  life's  an  unco  thing ! 
Simmer  an'  Winter,  Yule  an'  Sprin, 
The  damned,  dour-heartit  seasons  bring 

A  feck  o'  trouble. 
I  wadnae  try't  to  be  a  king  — 

No,  nor  for  double. 


ioo  ;  ;      ;1?NDERW00DS 

But  since  we're  in  it,  willy-nilly, 

We  maun  be  watchfii',  wise  an'  skilly, 

An'  no  mind  ony  ither  billy, 

Lassie  nor  God. 
But  drink  —  that's  my  best  counsel  till  'e : 

Sae  tak  the  nod. 


VIII 
THE  COUNTERBLAST— 1886 

My  bonny  man,  the  warld,  it's  true, 
Was  made  for  neither  me  nor  you  ; 
It's  just  a  place  to  warstle  through, 

As  Job  confessed  o't ; 
And  aye  the  best  that  we'll  can  do 

Is  mak  the  best  o't. 

There's  rowth  o'  wrang,  I'm  free  to  say 
The  simmer  brunt,  the  winter  blae, 
The  face  of  earth  a'  fyled  wi'  clay 

An'  dour  wi'  chuckies, 
An'  life  a  rough  an'  land'art  play 

For  country  buckies. 


104  UNDERWOODS 

An'  food's  anither  name  for  clart ; 
An'  beasts  an'  brambles  bite  an'  scart; 
An'  what  would  we  be  like,  my  heart ! 

If  bared  o'  claethin'  ? 
—  Aweel,  I  cannae  mend  your  cart : 

It's  that  or  naethin'. 

A  feck  o'  folk  frae  first  to  last 

Have  through  this  queer  experience  passed ; 

Twa- three,  I  ken,  just  damn  an'  blast 

The  hale  transaction ; 
But  twa-three  ithers,  east  an'  wast, 

Fand  satisfaction. 

Whaur  braid  the  briery  muirs  expand, 

A  waefii'  an'  a  weary  land, 

The  bumblebees,  a  gowden  band, 

Are  blithely  hingin' ; 
An'  there  the  canty  wanderer  fand 

The  laverock  singin'. 


THE   COUNTERBLAST  — 1886  105 

Trout  in  the  burn  grow  great  as  herr'n ; 
The  simple  sheep  can  find  their  fair'n'  j 
The  wind  blaws  clean  about  the  cairn 

Wi'  caller  air; 
The  muircock  an'  the  barefit  bairn 

Are  happy  there. 

Sic-like  the  howes  o'  life  to  some : 

Green  loans  whaur  they  ne'er  fash  their  thumb, 

But  mark  the  muckle  winds  that  come, 

Soopin'  an'  cool, 
Or  hear  the  powrin'  burnie  drum 

In  the  shilfa's  pool. 

The  evil  wi'  the  guid  they  tak ; 
They  ca'  a  gray  thing  gray,  no  black ; 
To  a  steigh  brae,  a  stubborn  back 

Addressin'  daily; 
An'  up  the  rude,  unbieldy  track 

O'  life,  gang  gaily. 


106  UNDERWOODS 

What  you  would  like's  a  palace  ha', 
Or  Sinday  parlour  dink  an'  braw 
Wi'  a'  things  ordered  in  a  raw- 
By  denty  leddies. 
Weel,  than,  ye  cannae  hae't :  that's  a' 
That  to  be  said  is. 

An'  since  at  life  ye've  taen  the  grue, 
An'  winnae  blithely  hirsle  through, 
Ye've  fund  the  very  thing  to  do  — 

That's  to  drink  speerit ; 
An'  shiine  we'll  hear  the  last  o'  you  — 

An'  blithe  to  hear  it ! 

The  shoon  ye  coft,  the  life  ye  lead, 
Ithers  will  heir  when  aince  ye're  deid ; 
They'll  heir  your  tasteless  bite  o'  breid, 

An'  find  it  sappy ; 
They'll  to  your  dulefii'  house  succeed, 

An'  there  be  happy. 


THE   COUNTERBLAST— 1886  107 

As  whan  a  glum  an'  fractious  wean 
Has  sat  an'  sullened  by  his  lane 
Till,  wi'  a  rowstin'  skelp,  he's  taen 

An'  shoo'd  to  bed  — 
The  ither  bairns  a'  fa'  to  play'n', 

As  gleg's  a  gled. 


IX 
THE  COUNTERBLAST  IRONICAL 

It's  strange  that  God  should  fash  to  frame 

The  yearth  and  lift  sae  hie, 
An'  clean  forget  to  explain  the  same 

To  a  gentleman  like  me. 

They  gutsy,  donnered  ither  folk, 

Their  weird  they  weel  may  dree  ; 

But  why  present  a  pig  in  a  poke 
To  a  gentleman  like  me  ? 

They  ither  folk  their  parritch  eat 

An'  sup  their  sugared  tea ; 
But  the  mind  is  no  to  be  wyled  wi'  meat 

Wi'  a  gentleman  like  me. 


THE   COUNTERBLAST   IRONICAL  109 

They  ither  folk,  they  court  their  joes 

At  gloamin'  on  the  lea ; 
But  they're  made  of  a  commoner  clay,  I  suppose, 

Than  a  gentleman  like  me. 

They  ither  folk,  for  richt  or  wrang, 

They  suffer,  bleed,  or  dee ; 
But  a'  thir  things  are  an  emp'y  sang 

To  a  gentleman  like  me. 

It's  a  different  thing  that  I  demand, 

Tho'  humble  as  can  be  — 
A  statement  fair  in  my  Maker's  hand 

To  a  gentleman  like  me: 

A  clear  account  writ  fair  an'  broad, 

An'  a  plain  apologie ; 
Or  the  deevil  a  ceevil  word  to  God 

From  a  gentleman  like  me. 


THEIR    LAUREATE    TO    AN    ACADEMY    CLASS 
DINNER    CLUB 

Dear  Thamson  class,  whaure'er  I  gang 
It  aye  comes  ower  me  wi'  a  spang : 
"Lordsake!  they  Thamson  lads — (deilhang 
Or  else  Lord  mend  them  ! )  — 
An1  that  wanchancy  annual  sang 
I  ne^er  can  send  them  /  " 

Straucht,  at  the  name,  a  trusty  tyke, 
My  conscience  girrs  ahint  the  dyke ; 
Straucht  on  my  hinderlands  I  fyke 

To  find  a  rhyme  t'  ye ; 
Pleased  —  although  mebbe  no  pleased-like  — 

To  gie  my  time  t'  ye. 


TO  AN  ACADEMY  CLASS  DINNER  CLUB  in 

"  Weel"  an'  says  you,  wi'  heavin'  breist, 
"  Saefar,  sae  guid>  but  what's  the  neist  ? 
Yearly  we  gaither  to  the  feast, 

A'  hopefi?  men  — 
Yearly  we  skelloch  'Hang  the  beast — 
Nae  sang  again  / '  " 

My  lads,  an'  what  am  I  to  say  ? 
Ye  shurely  ken  the  Muse's  way : 
Yestreen,  as  gleg's  a  tyke  —  the  day, 

Thrawn  like  a  cuddy : 
Her  conduc',  that  to  her's  a  play, 

Deith  to  a  body. 

Aft  whan  I  sat  an'  made  my  mane, 
Aft  whan  I  laboured  burd-alane, 
Fishin'  for  rhymes  an'  findin'  nane, 

Or  nane  were  fit  for  ye  — 
Ye  judged  me  cauld's  a  chucky  stane  — 

No  car'n'  a  bit  for  ye! 


UNDERWOODS 

But  saw  ye  ne'er  some  pingein'  bairn 

As  weak  as  a  pitaty-par'n'  — 

Less  iised  wi'  guidin'  horse-shoe  aim 

Than  steerin'  crowdie  — 
Packed  aff  his  lane,  by  moss  an*  cairn, 

To  ca'  the  howdie. 

Wae's  me,  for  the  puir  callant  than ! 
He  wambles  like  a  poke  o'  bran, 
An'  the  lowse  rein,  as  hard's  he  can, 

Pu's,  trem'lin'  handit; 
Till,  blaff!  upon  his  hinderlan' 

Behauld  him  landit. 

Sic-like  —  I  awn  the  weary  fac'  — 
Whan  on  my  muse  the  gate  I  tak, 
An'  see  her  gleed  e'e  raxin'  back 

To  keek  ahint  her  j  — 
To  me,  the  brig  o'  Heev'n  gangs  black 

As  blackest  winter. 


TO  AN  ACADEMY  CLASS   DINNER   CLUB  113 

"Lordsake!  we're  off"  thinks  I,  "but  whaur? 
On  what  abhorred  an'  whinny  scaur, 
Or  whammled  in  what  sea  o'  glaur, 

Will  she  desert  me? 
An'  will  she  just  disgrace?  or  waur  — 

Will  she  no  hurt  me?" 

Kittle  the  quaere  !     But  at  least 

The  day  I've  backed  the  fashious  beast, 

While  she,  wi'  mony  a  spang  an*  reist, 

Flang  heels  ower  bonnet ; 
An'  a'  triumphant  —  for  your  feast, 

Hae  !  there's  your  sonnet! 


XI 
EMBRO  HIE  KIRK 

The  Lord  Himsel'  in  former  days 
Waled  out  the  proper  tunes  for  praise 
An'  named  the  proper  kind  o'  claes 

For  folk  to  preach  in : 
Preceese  and  in  the  chief  o'  ways 

Important  teachin'. 

He  ordered  a'  things  late  and  air' ; 
He  ordered  folk  to  stand  at  prayer. 
(Although  I  cannae  just  mind  where 

He  gave  the  warnin'.) 
An'  pit  pomatum  on  their  hair 

On  Sabbath  mornin'. 


EMBRO   HIE   KIRK  115 

The  hale  o'  life  by  His  commands 
Was  ordered  to  a  body's  hands ; 
But  see !  this  corpus  juris  stands 

By  a'  forgotten; 
An'  God's  religion  in  a'  lands 

Is  deid  an'  rotten. 

While  thus  the  lave  o'  mankind's  lost, 
O'  Scotland  still  God  maks  His  boast — 
Puir  Scotland,  on  whase  barren  coast 

A  score  or  twa 
Auld  wives  wi'  mutches  an'  a  hoast 

Still  keep  His  law. 

In  Scotland,  a  wheen  canty,  plain, 
Douce,  kintry-leevin'  folk  retain 
The  Truth  —  or  did  so  aince  —  alane 

Of  a'  men  leevin' ; 
An'  noo  just  twa  o'  them  remain  — 

Just  Begg  an'  Niven. 


Ii6  UNDERWOODS 

For  noo,  unfaithfu'  to  the  Lord 
Auld  Scotland  joins  the  rebel  horde ; 
Her  human  hymn-books  on  the  board 

She  noo  displays : 
An'  Embro  Hie  Kirk's  been  restored 

In  popish  ways. 

O  punctum  temporis  for  action 
To  a'  o'  the  reformin'  faction, 
If  yet,  by  ony  act  or  paction, 

Thocht,  word,  or  sermon, 
This  dark  an'  damnable  transaction 

Micht  yet  determine ! 

For  see  —  as  Doctor  Begg  explains  — 
Hoo  easy  't's  dime !  a  pickle  weans, 
Wha  in  the  Hie  Street  gaither  stanes 

By  his  instruction, 
The  uncovenantit,  pentit  panes 

Ding  to  destruction. 


EMBRO   HIE   KIRK  117 

Up,  Niven,  or  ower  late  —  an'  dash 
Laigh  in  the  glaur  that  carnal  hash ; 
Let  spires  and  pews  wi'  gran'  stramash 

Thegether  fa'; 
The  rumlin'  kist  o'  whustles  smash 

In  pieces  sma'. 

Noo  choose  ye  out  a  waie  hammer; 
About  the  knottit  buttress  clam'er ; 
Alang  the  steep  roof  stoyt  an'  stammer, 

A  gate  mis-chancy ; 
On  the  auP  spire,  the  bells'  hie  cha'mer, 
„  Dance  your  bit  dancie. 

Ding,  devel,  dunt,  destroy,  an'  ruin, 
Wi'  carnal  stanes  the  square  bestrewin', 
Till  your  loud  chaps  frae  Kyle  to  Fruin, 

Frae  Hell  to  Heeven, 
Tell  the  guid  wark  that  baith  are  doin' — 

Baith  Begg  an'  Niven. 


XII 

THE  SCOTSMAN'S  RETURN  FROM  ABROAD 

In  a  letter  from  Mr.  Thomson  to  Mr.  Johnstone. 

In  mony  a  foreign  pairt  I've  been, 

An'  mony  an  unco  ferlie  seen, 

Since,  Mr.  Johnstone,  you  and  I 

Last  walkit  upon  Cocklerye. 

Wi'  gleg,  observant  een,  I  pass't 

By  sea  an'  land,  through  East  an'  Wast, 

And  still  in  ilka  age  an'  station 

Saw  naething  but  abomination. 

In  thir  unco  ven  an  tit  lands 

The  gangrel  Scot  uplifts  his  hands 


THE  SCOTSMAN'S  RETURN  FROM  ABROAD        119 

At  lack  of  a'  sectarian  fiish'n, 
An'  cauld  religious  destitution. 
He  rins,  puir  man,  frae  place  to  place, 
Tries  a'  their  graceless  means  o'  grace, 
Preacher  on  preacher,  kirk  on  kirk — 
This  yin  a  stot  an'  thon  a  stirk  — 
A  bletherin'  clan,  no  warth  a  preen, 
As  bad  as  Smith  of  Aiberdeen ! 

At  last,  across  the  weary  faem, 
Frae  far,  outlandish  pairts  I  came. 
On  ilka  side  o'  me  I  fand 
Fresh  tokens  o'  my  native  land. 
Wi'  whatna  joy  I  hailed  them  a' — 
The  hilltaps  standin'  raw  by  raw, 
The  public  house,  the  Hielan'  birks, 
And  a'  the  bonny  U.  P.  kirks ! 
But  maistly  thee,  the  bluid  o'  Scots, 
Frae  Maidenkirk  to  John  o'  Grots, 


120  UNDERWOODS 

The  king  o'  drinks,  as  I  conceive  it, 
Talisker,  Isla,  or  Glenlivet ! 

For  after  years  wi'  a  pockmantie 

Frae  Zanzibar  to  Alicante, 

In  mony  a  fash  and  sair  affliction 

I  gie't  as  my  sincere  conviction  — 

Of  a'  their  foreign  tricks  an'  pliskies, 

I  maist  abominate  their  whiskies. 

Nae  doot,  themsels,  they  ken  it  weel, 

An'  wi'  a  hash  o'  leemon  peel, 

And  ice  an'  siccan  filth,  they  ettle 

The  stawsome  kind  o'  goo  to  settle ; 

Sic  wersh  apothecary's  broos  wi' 

As  Scotsmen  scorn  to  fyle  their  moo's  wi' 

An',  man,  I  was  a  blithe  hame-comer 
Whan  first  I  syndit  out  my  rummer. 
Ye  should  hae  seen  me  then,  wi'  care 
The  less  important  pairts  prepare ; 


THE  SCOTSMAN'S  RETURN   FROM  ABROAD        121 

Syne,  weel  contentit  wi'  it  a', 
Pour  in  the  speerits  wi'  a  jaw  ! 
I  didnae  drink,  I  didnae  speak, — 
I  only  snowkit  up  the  reek. 
I  was  sae  pleased  therin  to  paidle, 
I  sat  an'  plowtered  wi'  my  ladle. 

An'  blithe  was  I,  the  morrow's  morn, 
To  daunder  through  the  stookit  corn, 
And  after  a'  my  strange  mishanters, 
Sit  doun  amang  my  ain  dissenters. 
An',  man,  it  was  a  joy  to  me 
The  pu'pit  an'  the  pews  to  see, 
The  pennies  dirlin'  in  the  plate, 
The  elders  lookin'  on  in  state ; 
An'  'mang  the  first,  as  it  befell, 
Wha  should  I  see,  sir,  but  yoursel'! 

I  was,  and  I  will  no  deny  it, 
At  the  first  gliff  a  hantle  tryit 


122  UNDERWOODS 

To  see  yoursel'  in  sic  a  station  — 

It  seemed  a  doubtfu'  dispensation. 

The  feelin'  was  a  mere  digression; 

For  shiine  I  understood  the  session, 

An'  mindin'  Aiken  an'  M'Neil, 

I  wondered  they  had  dime  sae  weel. 

I  saw  I  had  mysel'  to  blame ; 

For  had  I  but  remained  at  hame, 

Aiblins  —  though  no  ava'  deservin'  't  — 

They  micht  hae  named  your  humble  servant. 

The  kirk  was  filled,  the  door  was  steeked; 
Up  to  the  pu'pit  ance  I  keeked ; 
I  was  mair  pleased  than  I  can  tell  — 
It  was  the  minister  himsel'! 
Proud,  proud  was  I  to  see  his  face, 
After  sae  lang  awa'  frae  grace. 
Pleased  as  I  was,  I'm  no  denyin' 
Some  maitters  were  not  edifyin' ; 


THE   SCOTSMAN'S   RETURN   FROM  ABROAD        123 

For  first  I  fand  —  an'  here  was  news !  — 

Mere  hymn-books  cockin'  in  the  pews  — 

A  humanised  abomination, 

Unfit  for  ony  congregation. 

Syne,  while  I  still  was  on  the  tenter, 

I  scunnered  at  the  new  prezentor; 

I  thocht  him  gesterhV  an'  cauld  — 

A  sair  declension  frae  the  auld. 

Syne,  as  though  a'  the  faith  was  wreckit, 

The  prayer  was  not  what  I'd  exspeckit. 

Himsel',  as  it  appeared  to  me, 

Was  no  the  man  he  used  to  be. 

♦ 

But  just  as  I  was  growin'  vext 
He  waled  a  maist  judeecious  text, 
An',  launchin'  into  his  prelections, 
Swoopt,  wi'  a  skirl,  on  a'  defections. 

O  what  a  gale  was  on  my  speerit 
To  hear  the  p'ints  o'  doctrine  clearit, 


124  UNDERWOODS 

And  a'  the  horrors  o'  damnation 
Set  furth  wi'  faithfu'  ministration! 
Nae  shauchlin'  testimony  here  — 
We  were  a'  damned,  an'  that  was  clear. 
I  owned,  wi'  gratitude  an'  wonder, 
He  was  a  pleisure  to  sit  under. 


XIII 

Late  in  the  nicht  in  bed  I  lay, 
The  winds  were  at  their  weary  play, 
An'  tirlin'  wa's  an'  skirlin'  wae 

Through  Heev'n  they  battered; 
On-ding  o'  hail,  on-blaff  o'  spray, 

The  tempest  blattered. 

The  masoned  house  it  dinled  through ; 
It  dung  the  ship,  it  cowped  the  coo'; 
The  rankit  aiks  it  overthrew, 

Had  braved  a'  weathers ; 
The  Strang  sea-gleds  it  took  an'  blew 

Awa'  like  feathers. 


126  UNDERWOODS 


The  thrawes  o'  fear  on  a'  were  shed, 
An'  the  hair  rose,  an'  slumber  fled, 
An'  lichts  were  lit  an'  prayers  were  said 

Through  a'  the  kintry ; 
An'  the  cauld  terror  clum  in  bed 

Wi'  a'  an'  sindry. 

To  hear  in  the  pit-mirk  on  hie 

The  brangled  collieshangie  flie, 

The  war?,  they  thocht,  wi'  land  an'  sea, 

ItseP  wad  cowpit ; 
An'  for  auld  aim,  the  smashed  debris 

By  God  be  rowpit. 

Meanwhile  frae  far  Aldeboran, 
To  folks  wi'  talescopes  in  han', 
O'  ships  that  cowpit,  winds  that  ran, 

Nae  sign  was  seen, 
But  the  wee  warP  in  sunshine  span 

As  bricht's  a  preen. 


LATE   IN   THE  NICHT  127 

I,  tae,  by  God's  especial  grace, 
Dwall  denty  in  a  bieldy  place, 
Wi'  hosened  feet,  wi'  shaven  face, 

Wi'  dacent  mainners : 
A  grand  example  to  the  race 

O'  tautit  sinners! 

The  wind  may  blaw,  the  heathen  rage, 
The  deil  may  start  on  the  rampage;  — 
The  sick  in  bed,  the  thief  in  cage — 

What's  a'  to  me  ? 
Cosh  in  my  house,  a  sober  sage, 

I  sit  an'  see. 

An'  whiles  the  bluid  spangs  to  my  bree, 
To  lie  sae  saft,  to  live  sae  free, 
While  better  men  maun  do  an'  die 

In  unco  places. 
;<  Whaur's  God?  "  I  cry,  an'  "  Whae  is  me 

To  hae  sic  graces  ?  " 


128  UNDERWOODS 

I  mind  the  fecht  the  sailors  keep, 
But  fire  or  can'le,  rest  or  sleep, 
In  darkness  an'  the  muckle  deep ; 

An'  mind  beside 
The  herd  that  on  the  hills  o'  sheep 

Has  wandered  wide. 

I  mind  me  on  the  hoastin'  weans  — 
The  penny  joes  on  causey  stanes  — 
The  auld  folk  wi'  the  crazy  banes, 

Baith  auld  an'  puir, 
That  aye  maun  thole  the  winds  an'  rains, 

An'  labour  sair. 

An'  whiles  I'm  kind  o'  pleased  a  blink, 
An'  kind  o'  fleyed  forby,  to  think, 
For  a'  my  rowth  o'  meat  an'  drink 

An*  waste  o'  crumb, 
I'll  mebbe  have  to  thole  wi'  skink 

In  Kingdom  Come. 


LATE  IN   THE  NICHT  129 

For  God  whan  jowes  the  Judgment  bell, 
Wi'  His  ain  Hand,  His  Leevin'  SeP, 
Sail  ryve  the  guid  (as  Prophets  tell) 

Frae  them  that  had  it ; 
And  in  the  reamin'  pat  o'  Hell, 

The  rich  be  scaddit. 

O  Lord,  if  this  indeed  be  sae, 
Let  daw  that  sair  an'  happy  day ! 
Again'  the  warl',  grawn  auld  an'  gray, 

Up  wi'  your  aixe ! 
An'  let  the  puir  enjoy  their  play — 

I'll  thole  my  paiks. 


XIV 
MY   CONSCIENCE! 

Of  a'  the  ills  that  flesh  can  fear, 
The  loss  o'  frien's,  the  lack  o'  gear, 
A  yowlin'  tyke,  a  glandered  mear, 

A  lassie's  nonsense  — 
There's  just  ae  thing  I  cannae  bear, 

An'  that's  my  conscience. 

Whan  day  (an'  a'  excuse)  has  gane, 
An'  wark  is  dime,  and  duty's  plain, 
An'  to  my  chalmer  a'  my  lane 

I  creep  apairt, 
My  conscience  !  hoo  the  yammerin'  pain 

Stends  to  my  heart ! 


MY  CONSCIENCE!  131 

A'  day  wi'  various  ends  in  view 
The  hairsts  o'  time  I  had  to  pu', 
An'  made  a  hash  wad  staw  a  soo, 

Let  be  a  man  !  — 
My  conscience!  whan  my  han's  were  fu', 

Whaur  were  ye  then  ? 

An'  there  were  a'  the  lures  o'  life, 
There  pleesure  skirlin'  on  the  fife, 
There  anger,  wi'  the  hotchin'  knife 

Ground  shairp  in  Hell  — 
My  conscience ! —  you  that's  like  a  wife ! — 

Whaur  was  yourseP  ? 

I  ken  it  fine :  just  waitin'  here, 

To  gar  the  evil  waur  appear, 

To  clart  the  guid,  confuse  the  clear, 

Misca'  the  great, 
My  conscience !   an'  to  raise  a  steer 

Whan  a's  ower  late. 


132  UNDERWOODS 

Sic-like,  some  tyke  grawn  auld  and  blind, 
Whan  thieves  brok'  through  the  gear  to  p'ind, 
Has  lain  his  dozened  length  an'  grinned 

At  the  disaster; 
An'  the  morn's  mornin',  wud's  the  wind, 

Yokes  on  his  master. 


XV 
TO  DOCTOR  JOHN  BROWN 

(  Whan  the  dear  doctor,  dear  to  a\ 
Was  still  amang  us  here  belaw, 
I  set  my  pipes  his  praise  to  blaw 

WV  a'  my  speerit; 
But  nooy  Dear  Doctor  I  he's  awa\ 

An?  ne'er  can  hear  it.) 

By  Lyne  and  Tyne,  by  Thames  and  Tees, 

By  a'  the  various  river-Dee's, 

In  Mars  and  Manors  'yont  the  seas 

Or  here  at  hame, 
Whaure'er  there's  kindly  folk  to  please, 

They  ken  your  name. 


134  UNDERWOODS 

They  ken  your  name,  they  ken  your  tyke, 
They  ken  the  honey  from  your  byke ; 
But  mebbe  after  a'  your  fyke, 

(The  truth  to  tell) 
It's  just  your  honest  Rab  they  like, 

An'  no  yoursel'. 

As  at  the  gowff,  some  canny  play'r 
Should  tee  a  common  ba'  wi'  care  — 
Should  flourish  and  deleever  fair 

His  souple  shintie  — 
An'  the  ba'  rise  into  the  air, 

A  leevin'  lintie : 

Sae  in  the  game  we  writers  play, 
There  comes  to  some  a  bonny  day, 
When  a  dear  ferlie  shall  repay 

Their  years  o'  strife, 
An'  like  you  Rab,  their  things  o'  clay, 

Spreid  wings  o'  life. 


TO   DOCTOR  JOHN   BROWN  135 

Ye  scarce  deserved  it,  I'm  afraid  — 
You  that  had  never  learned  the  trade, 
But  just  some  idle  mornin'  strayed 

Into  the  schule, 
An'  picked  the  fiddle  up  an'  played 

Like  Neil  himseP. 

Your  e'e  was  gleg,  your  ringers  dink ; 
Ye  didnae  fash  yoursel'  to  think, 
But  wove,  as  fast  as  puss  can  link, 

Your  denty  wab  :  — 
Ye  stapped  your  pen  into  the  ink, 

An'  there  was  Rab ! 

Sinsyne,  whaure'er  your  fortune  lay 
By  dowie  den,  by  canty  brae, 
Simmer  an'  winter,  nicht  an'  day, 

Rab  was  aye  wi'  ye ; 
An'  a'  the  folk  on  a'  the  way 

Were  blithe  to  see  ye. 


136  UNDERWOODS 

O  sir,  the  gods  are  kind  indeed, 
An'  hauld  ye  for  an  honoured  heid, 
That  for  a  wee  bit  clarkit  screed 

Sae  weel  reward  ye, 
An'  lend  —  puir  Rabbie  bein'  deid  — 

His  ghaist  to  guard  ye. 

For  though,  whaure'er  yourseP  may  be, 
We've  just  to  turn  an'  glisk  a  wee, 
An'  Rab  at  heel  we're  shiire  to  see 

Wi'  gladsome  caper : 
The  bogle  of  a  bogle,  he  — 

A  ghaist  o'  paper ! 

And  as  the  auld-farrand  hero  sees 

In  Hell  a  bogle  Hercules, 

Pit  there  the  lesser  deid  to  please, 

While  he  himsel' 
D walls  wi'  the  muckle  gods  at  ease 

Far  raised  frae  hell : 


TO   DOCTOR  JOHN   BROWN  137 

Sae  the  true  Rabbie  far  has  gane 

On  kindlier  business  o'  his  ain 

Wi*  aulder  frien's ;  an'  his  breist-bane 

An'  stumpie  tailie, 
He  birstles  at  a  new  hearth  stane 

By  James  and  Ailie. 


XVI 

It's  an  owercome  sooth  for  age  an'  youth 

And  it  brooks  wi'  nae  denial, 
That  the  dearest  friends  are  the  auldest  friends 

And  the  young  are  just  on  trial. 

There's  a  rival  bauld  wi'  young  an'  auld 

And  it's  him  that  has  bereft  me ; 
For  the  surest  friends  are  the  auldest  friends 

And  the  maist  o'  mines  hae  left  me. 

There  are  kind  hearts  still,  for  friends  to  fill 
And  fools  to  take  and  break  them ; 

But  the  nearest  friends  are  the  auldest  friends 
And  the  grave's  the  place  to  seek  them. 


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